


Taming the Tempest

by HepG2



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Drama, Dubious Consent Fantasy, Enemies to Friends, Escort Service, Gay Chicken, M/M, Minor Canonical Character(s), Moral Lessons, Platonic Male/Male Relationships, Porn with Feelings, Post-Avengers (2012), Power Play, Public Hand Jobs, Public Humiliation, Public Masturbation, Public Nudity, Punishment, Sex Games, Sexual Slavery, Steve Rogers-centric, Tony Stark Has Nightmares, Tony Stark Has Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-18
Updated: 2017-09-21
Packaged: 2018-12-16 20:53:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 20,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11836851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HepG2/pseuds/HepG2
Summary: Tony Stark is an absolutemenacewhen it comes to working in a team. Has a penchant for disregarding orders, disrespecting superiors, does anything he wants.Steve will carve respect into that body, and Tonywillobey.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, you, you, you, beautiful people! This is not going to be overly long, under 20K words I think. Enjoy.

Steve Rogers has been whaling on his fourth Kevlar-fortified punching bag in a row, and is steadily progressing towards his fifth. His knuckles are sore, he’s waddling in a pool of sweat, and it’s only half past nine at night. The ceiling beam from which the bag hangs from shudders at the ferocity of his punch – _one, two, one, two_ – he thinks, by the end of the day, there’ll be a new skylight in the gym’s ceiling. Not charging _Mr Stark_ for the impromptu renovation.

 

Stark, Stark, Stark.

 

Asshole.

 

Steve grunts as his fist collides into the dead weight, and the chains rattle with renewed vigour. He draws a deep breath – he’s better than this, he’s not _throwing a tantrum_ – and steadies the pendulum of a bag before him.

 

Twelve hours ago, Fury dispatched the Avengers to a ghost ship just 27 nautical miles off the Gulf of Mexico. Sounds like a run of the mill assignment – SHIELD scientists detected strange electromagnetic signals emanating from the ship’s belly, and wanted to know the what, who and why. Of the Avengers’ active roster, only Steve and Tony were on the premise. After four hours of passive-aggressively ignoring each other while chilling in the confinement of a two-seater Quinjet, Steve expertly brings her to the jump-off point, holding her steady at constant velocity as Tony – all dressed up in the swanky Mark VII – leaps off it. The first thing Tony said to him was, “Nothing on heat, motion and EM. Probably a dud, Cap.”

 

Be that as it may, he instructed Tony to secure the perimeter while he land the Quinjet, and to rendezvous at the hangar in ten. So naturally, Tony strolled down the lower decks all on his own. Five minutes later, Steve heard screams and grunts blaring from his earpiece and he landed the Quinjet on water and swam all the way onboard. By the time he reached Tony in one of the storerooms, he was greeted with what he could only describe as pandemonium. There were char marks in every corner, courtesy of the repulsor blasters, and a battalion of heavily armed individuals strewn lifelessly around them. All incapacitated via non-lethal means, of course, but it sure was a drag triaging them, and then securing lifeboats and rescue choppers to cart them off to the nearest hospital, and then staying back to sweep the area for evidence – intact and destroyed.

 

That was a failed successful mission. Fury brandished the bill for clean-up, damage control, and miscellaneous logistic charges during debriefing. He did not hold back, and tore them a new one. Tony had the decency to keep his mouth shut at least, but Steve knew there was absolutely _zero uptake_ on Tony’s part, and that didn’t sit well with him.

 

This recollection triggers another bout of irritability and he wallops the punching bag some more.

 

He deeply regrets what comes next – doing the sensible thing and talking sense to Tony, teammate to teammate, man to man.

 

“Can’t you keep your ego under control? If you can’t function in a team, I’ll have to bench you before it jeopardise the mission and the safety of others.”

 

“No, you won’t,” Tony replied suavely.

 

“… Are you challenging a direct order?”

 

“Ah, is that what it is? You won’t bench me, Cap. And I’ll tell you why. Because, I’m the _only_ flyer you have on the team who doesn’t go on intergalactic roundtrips every other season. I’m the most flexible unit you have on hand. I have suits catered for every Code Red imaginable – hostage extraction, recon, stealth combat. Deep-sea and volcanic exploration, space traveling? You name it, you have it. So, no, Cap. I’m calling your bluff.”

 

Tony was right.

 

“Here’s what _I_ think. You can call all the shots you want, I know it feeds your soul or, whatever.” Steve remembers the heat arising from the back of his neck. “You may not know this, but Iron Man isn’t quite a solo gig. I have my co-pilots. Every time I charge into battle, I have my AIs calculating risks and options, and calibrating the appropriate response to suit each unique situation. Take it from me, they’re _good._

My judgement isn’t any more inferior to yours. ‘Enemy mistakes are lucky only in the respite gained. Being observant, thoughtful, and _opportunistic_ is key’.”

 

Steve smirks frozenly. “The twelfth of the Thirty-Six Strategems.”

 

“’Take the opportunity to pilfer a goat’.”

 

“That’s not an excuse for insubordination, Stark.”

 

Steve plays the words over and over again in his headspace. What Tony meant – beneath the abjection – was why can’t it function the other way around? Why can’t the Avengers trust _him_ to make the call?

 

Steve realises belatedly that the bag is starting to spill sand from the seams. He’s been working at this long enough, time to tap out. There are also footsteps shuffling from the adjacent corridor. He’s certainly hogged the facility enough.

 

The gaits are unsteady to his ears. Inconsistent. Chaotic.

 

_Drunken._

“Stark,” he bites out, and promptly turns off the lights. The Avengers are still on standby for God’s sake, and that means maintaining sobriety for the next seventy-two hours. Will it kill him to wait until Friday? Seriously?

 

“Come on in! No one’s around!”

 

The door yawns open and a figure promptly faceplants into the tatami mat. Despite the distance, Steve’s nose wrinkles at the stench of vodka. Even for a highly functioning alcoholic, that’s quite excessive, isn’t it? Tony rolls to his side, but is too inebriated to sit up on his own.

 

And another figure appears by the entrance. Male, tall. Certainly not as drunk as Tony. He strolls into the gym, unaware of Steve watching them from afar, and crouches to Tony’s eye level. Which is fan-effing-tastic – Steve hopes he drags Tony and his drunkard ass upstairs so _Steve_ doesn’t have to deal with the mess. He’d rather spend the next fifteen minutes vacuuming sand from the mat and burying busted punching bags in unmarked graves.

 

It does register to him as weird that this friend of Tony’s hasn’t said a word since. Not even the lamest “Get up!”. And then, and then, and then, the weird alarm in Steve’s head goes off when he arranges his legs to straddle Tony’s thighs, and when Tony starts bucking, muttering something unintelligible – something like “Gerrof me” – but the man still won’t budge. In a desperate attempt of freeing himself, Tony pushes against the man’s chest with buttery arms, urging him to move, and – this is when Steve’s eyebrows shoot past his hairline – the man gathers those wrists and pins them to the ground. Struggling under the weight is futile, and the more Tony fights, the harder he seems to thrust against the man’s pelvis. Their silhouettes leave nothing to imagination – Steve also hears every pant, every moan, every rustle of clothes on clothes as they rub themselves against one another. He flushes, and wonders if there’s another way out in the back. He does _not_ need to see those hands creep between Tony’s thighs to cup at his crotch. Until he hears the words – soft, distraught – but he hears Tony all the same.

 

“ _Stop. Please_.”

 

Steve closes the distance in a heartbeat, his battered knuckles breaking into jaws.


	2. Chapter 2

The man falls violently on his butt, and Steve feels something gives under his fist. Probably a dislocated jaw – he was already pulling his punches – and he makes to grab Tony by his shoulders.

 

But, he’s suddenly shoved backward that he staggers, not because it was forceful enough. He can’t believe what he’s seeing after he’s gone through the trouble of pulling the creep off Tony: _Tony,_ arms outstretched, has inserted himself between Steve and his prey. There’s a glint of clarity in those hazel eyes, and his chest is cycling like mad.

 

“Don’t.”

 

Without tearing his glare from Steve, he prods at the man behind him with his elbow and coldly instructs him to leave. “I’ll pay you in full, don’t worry. And not a word about tonight.”

 

The man nods furiously, obviously glad that he’s allowed to leave the circus. One hand clasping his chin, he sprints out of the gym. And both men continue to stare daggers at each other, not moving, not speaking – one half-lying on the floor, the other drawn to full height, until the door slams to a shut.

 

“What the hell,” Tony slurs, and slumps casually to the floor. “I paid good money for that.”

 

“… Paid?”

 

“I still have to pay in full for services _not_ rendered. So, _thank_ _you_ for ruining my night, Cap.”

 

Steve’s eyes narrowed in the dimness as he watches Tony making a fool of himself trying to stand up. “He’s not a friend?”

 

“Whatever gives you that impression? God… I feel sick,” and promptly retches at the mat. Because Steve is Steve, he acquiesces and sidles to the ground, surrendering to the fate of babysitting one genius-billionaire for the next two hours or so. Services rendered though sadly, not monetarily compensated.

 

“I don’t care what you do with your own time,” Steve grumbles. Tony is too drunk to remember any of this anyway. At least he gets the emotional gratification of griping to the face of the source of his gripes. “Keep your hook-ups to your own place next time.”

 

“I _am at_  my own place. This is the Tower, isn’t it? Shit… I told him to send me home… can’t miss… name’s on the roof and all…”

 

“I mean, your own room, Stark. This is embarrassing! Now, stand up.”

 

Tony fists the back of Steve’s collar, perhaps a tad too sloppily as he tries to gain a foothold. And with immaculate precision and strength, he suddenly jerks Steve bodily to the left – then rides the momentum to pin Steve fully to the ground. He sits firmly about Steve’s stomach, and presses his calves into Steve’s flanks.

 

Obviously pleased with himself, he smirks, “What is it with you, Rogers? You like pissing me off that much?”

 

“You’re not yourself. Get off me.”

 

“You’re _Captain America._ I’m just a man in a can, aren’t I?”

 

“Stark, final warning –”

 

“That guy back there? He’s an escort. Haven’t done him before, so I don’t know if he’s any good for sure.” Steve’s ears burn with the details, and he’s _had it._ Tony scoots lower until he’s suddenly sitting atop Steve’s crotch, and he gyrates his hip, his hardened bulge rubbing against Steve’s. “Oh, someone’s interested?”

 

With absurd ease, Steve flips Tony around until he’s bracketing the drunken form, all sprawled out on the mat. Not one to give up so easily, Tony braces Steve by his narrow waist and bucks _up_ , seeking more friction. “Live life a bit, Cap. You want this.”

 

That’s adrenaline and blood rush and aftermath of going a few rounds with the punching bags. Thank you for the offer, but he’d rather fuck a PVC pipe lined with sandpaper.

 

“You’re _drunk._ I’m putting you to bed.”

 

“Come on, Cap. I know it was the forties, but homophobia is so yesterday –”

 

Steve grabs hold of Tony by his knee and raises a leg. He’s _doing things_ before he’s thinking it, dry humping against Tony’s pelvis, cocks and balls gliding along each other. Too many clothes in between, but Tony is getting harder, and Steve is losing control.

 

“Careful what you wish for, Stark.”

 

He flips Tony over again so he’s lying on his stomach. Snaking one arm around his middle, Steve reels him in until he’s on four. A rather vulnerable position – Steve locks Tony’s ankles with his own – plenty of openings for attack, no means for defence.

 

“My patience has limits.”

 

A cruel hand slides southward, from the toned expanse of Tony’s stomach to the mound between his thighs. Fingers close around the warmth and musk, and the rough texture of a Tom Ford slacks probably worth several months of room rental. He kneads at Tony’s hardness, incessantly, mercilessly, knuckles probing into crooks and undersides of flesh and bones.

 

What a way to teach the great Tony Stark some humility.

 

Steve thrusts forward, his own arousal meeting Tony’s buttocks, and he keeps on rubbing. It’s pleasurable, yet miserably hollow on the inside, and his heartstring tugs as common fucking sense drills into his brain.

 

What is he doing?

 

Steve wants to pull away, but Tony is beginning to pant, and he’s backing himself _into_ Steve, so wanting, so needing. With his free hand, Steve seizes Tony about his elbow and _pulls,_ and Tony folds upward that his back is flush against Steve’s front. Careful – he could’ve dislocated another set of bones – but nobody’s paying heed to safety compliance, what the hell, _more, more, more_ –

 

“This what you want, Stark?” Steve bites into an earlobe. Deftly, he unbuckles Tony’s belt and leaves it to dangle freely from the waistband. “Paying for sex, imagine that. When you can have this.” He shoves his hand down the front – Tony has gone commando – and pumps the full length with fervour.  

 

“Cap –”

 

“What?” he breathes out harshly. Tony’s leaking everywhere. “Wanna apologise?”

 

“Coming –”

 

That doesn’t compute until Tony spills right into his palm, hip jerking with the force of his orgasm. He sags forward, and Steve lets him, stunned beyond belief.

 

_What has he done?_

Tony collects himself in record time and he turns around, still on his knees, on four, and he crawls up into Steve’s lap. Chin tilting upward, he coos, “I’m a generous lover. Let me,” and his fingers dance suggestively over the waistband of Steve’s yoga pants.

 

This time, Steve heeds his conscience. He mumbles an apology, and runs.


	3. Chapter 3

As grown adults, sharing living quarters with fellow Avengers mates has its upsides and downsides. Steve is more than happy to trade seamless Assembly for decline in privacy. It’s either the Tower, or SHIELD barracks anyway. Same difference. Actually, scratch that. Sharing living quarters with _Tony_ _Stark_ has the downsides outweighing the upsides. He confirms that hypothesis when Fury wakes him up at four in the morning with one phone call, one Avenger alert and one Tower-wide alarm, each following the next after a fifteen-second interval. Steve is ready to move out in under ten minutes, but Tony is nowhere to be found.

 

Still cosying up his comforter, JARVIS tells him.

 

“Captain, we are twenty minutes to drop-off. _Where is Stark_?”

 

The vein in Steve’s temple pops, and he nearly spits into the mic, “It’s gonna have to be a solo mission tonight, Nick.”

 

“… Get in the Quinjet.”

 

“Yes, Sir.”

 

Trust Tony to throw his comrades under the bus because an impromptu mission isn't worth getting out of bed for.

 

That’s how Steve ends up ploughing into an abandoned Cineplex, backed up by a six-man-strong STRIKE team extracting hostages, because some psychos are holding up an auditorium of people at gunpoint, demanding an obscene amount of money. To clarify, those guns are reverse-engineered Chitauri tech. That bit warrants the Avengers’ intervention – sorry, he means _Captain America’s_ intervention. The rescue mission is going down swimmingly, save for the sudden revelation of a _secondary_ holding unit for said alien tech fifty miles out, and the enemies are evacuating. Nobody is fast enough, hardy enough to intercede, and all manpower are tied to the Cineplex. Steve considers taking the Quinjet down himself when _Iron Man_ chimes into the earpiece, “I’ll take care of that.”

 

In the nick of time.

 

Steve does take the Quinjet down to back Tony up after he’s done with the Cineplex, mostly out of prudence than necessity. To his non-surprise, all malicious tech and folks have been rounded up and secured with some cutting edge, nigh-unbreakable handcuffs that glow strangely in blue. It’s Tinseltown with every piece of Starkware.

 

“Good job, Stark.”

 

“Cakewalk, Cap. Uh, we got DODC incoming from the Western borders. ETA is five minutes from now. Can we leave the clean-up to them? I’m still trying to clear off my sleep debt.”

  
Tony communicating with Damage Control without prompted? Tony worrying about clean-up? Tony coming out to support a SHIELD operation without Fury barking in his ears? Did Christmas come early this year?

 

“Is that really you, Stark? It’s like I don’t know you anymore.”

 

“Oh. Busted!”

 

The faceplate lifts, and Steve finds himself staring into an empty helmet.

 

“… Where are you?”

 

“The Tower.” There’s a hint of a yawn in that admission. “I’m flying the suit in remote.”

 

“You _engaged_ your targets in remote?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“… We need to talk.”

 

That aside, all in all, it's a good day's work. Steve attends debriefing at the Triskelion alone wearing a mild expression of one suffering from a case of hemorrhoid. His temper sizzles when Fury holds the door open an extra two seconds after he walks in, clearly expecting someone else and asks, “Where’s Stark? I thought he arrived last minute to the party.” And then, cutting right to the chase, let's say Fury uses very stern words while addressing the risks of engaging targets in remote. They’re lucky there wasn’t a misfire or situations that necessitate someone making  _the_ judgement call. Steve's point exactly, but Fury is making his case to the wrong audience, and that grates on Steve's nerves even more.

 

"'No unmanned aerial vehicle will ever trump a pilot's instinct, his insight - the ability to look into a situation beyond the obvious and discern its outcome'. A man told me that when I said in his face that the Iron Man concept was a heap of dung. Do you know who that man is, Captain?"

 

Rhetoric. Steve says nothing.

 

"He then said, 'Why not a pilot without a plane?' You're telling me this is the same man who threw his alarm clock out the window and sent an empty suit to the battlefield?"

 

Fury not-so-subtly reminds Steve to get all his superhero ducks in a goddam row.

 

JARVIS informs him that Tony is still snoozing by the time he trudges into the Tower’s foyer. Probably sleeping off yesterday’s hangover. Steve’s still moody, he’s pissed off. He _might_ accidentally murder Iron Man in his sleep if he’s not careful. He showers and changes and hopes that the thundercloud about his head will lift by the time he gets to Tony’s door.

 

It doesn’t.

 

“Stark? You awake?” He knocks twice. “Can I come in?”

 

Permissions be damned.

 

He lets himself in, and finds Tony slowly rousing from the couch facing a floor-to-ceiling window. He’s wearing some sort of ultra-modern glasses, every aspect of it is transparent, and there are blue lines running across the eyepieces. Chic, but unfortunately does nothing to hide the wearer’s hammered profile. He takes one good look at Steve where he’s seated and yawns once more, long and wide.

 

“Morning, Cap.”

 

“We need to talk.” Steve shuts the door behind him, and leans against it. “About the mission just now.”

 

“You’re welcome, I suppose.”

 

“ _…_ I don’t want to do this, but you leave me no choice. You’re off the Avengers roster until further notice.” There’s really no point in talking sense with the man. He gives up. He rarely does, but this is a lost cause. Steve’s hand is on the door knob once more. “Good day, Mr Stark.”

 

“What? You can’t do that!”

 

“I just did, didn’t I?”

 

“And you’re blameless? You walked into unchartered territory, severely undermanned and failed to consider the possibility of a second base of operation. This mission would’ve failed if it weren’t for my, dare I say, timely intervention and foresight –”

 

“You were, still _are_ drunk. You have no clearance to participate in a mission under influence –”

 

“Man with a Plan, my foot –”

 

“One day, you’re gonna end up _killing_ someone, and that’s on you, Stark!”

 

That shuts Tony right the hell up, and Steve is _glad_. He fumes in silence as something murky crosses Tony’s visage, and he doesn’t care. It has to be said, and he’s saying it. “I’ll let you know when we need you.”

 

“Hey, I’m not done with you yet.”

 

“Well, _I_ am.”

 

Ignoring him, Steve begins pulling at the knob, but Tony suddenly creeps up from behind and slams the door shut. He’s so close Steve can smell vodka and sweat evaporating off his skin. Sometimes, Steve wonders if Tony has a death wish of some sort, antagonising a super-soldier so viciously, pushing all the giant, red buttons on Steve without care. He manoeuvres Tony easily that _he’s_ bracketed by Steve’s arms, chest pressed up against the door. When will he ever learn his place?

 

“Oh, this again?” Tony’s voice bounces off the wood panel. “That sexy time we had in the gym was really something else, wasn’t it?”

 

“ _Christ_.” Steve wedges a knee between Tony’s thighs, and forces one side of that arrogant cheek against the door. “You just don’t know when to stop, do you?”

 

“Has it eaten at your Boy Scout conscience already? Sleepless nights, hmm? Maybe that’s why you’re so eager to answer Fury’s call. Keep the wet dreams at bay.”

 

“Shut up.”

 

“ _Make me_.”

 

Both their pants pooling around their ankles in the next heartbeat, Steve slides his half-mast cock between the crack of Tony’s butt. “Gay enough for you?” he snarls into the ear before him, and thrusts his hip a few times, his cock sliding over Tony’s morning wood.


	4. Chapter 4

“All right,” Steve feels Tony push against the door. An admirable effort, but futile against the strength of Captain America. “What do you want?”

 

“What _you_ want.”

 

“You sure you wanna play this game, Cap?” Steve hisses when Tony bucks his ass against Steve’s crotch, grinding into him with vigour. “You know of my reputation.”

 

“Yeah, heard of some.” As far as he knows, the Avengers quarters are as barren as it could be. Just the two of them occupying this floor, the others either on covert SHIELD operations or not in this galaxy. Which means…

 

Steve hooks his arms under Tony’s and pulls. It’s so easy to dislocate a shoulder, snap a spine – so easy to hold this body hostage against Tony’s obnoxiousness. “I’m letting go of your left arm,” he mutters, hip still thrusting in rhythm. “Touch us,” and proceeds to stick his pelvis out the best he could so his cock, neatly stacked under Tony’s, is readily accessible. He’s considerate like that. “Come on, now.” His has a slight curve upward, and it’s frankly, supremely embarrassing to have it bump against Tony’s at the slightest shift. Some colour might have shown on his face, but this is his parade. He makes sure his prey is as good as stuck in a quicksand.

 

Tony suddenly falls so quiet, it’s unnerving.

 

Maybe he _has_ taken this too far.

 

“It’s difficult to get a read on you these days, Rogers.” It’s a rarely-heard shift in inflection. Tony’s voice dips a pitch and he hums as his fingers – cold to Steve’s flesh, but Steve has always burnt coal hot – wrap around their girths. Steve prefers this version of Tony by a mile, because in this headspace, there’s no sarcasm, no triggering jokes. Just Tony eyeballing his target. He gives them both some lazy strokes, foreskins retracting to reveal glistening heads, Tony’s already beading with precum.

 

He leans into Steve, head lolling back until it rests against Steve’s shoulder. “Who knows even _you_ have a kink? It’s good to be reborn into this century. We got all sorts of crazies for you to explore.” Steve nudges at him to go on, rocking gently into Tony. Fingers slide closer to the base to close around their sacs, and Steve’s cheek careens against Tony’s temple.

 

Sex isn’t recreation to Steve. Sex is an _investment,_ oftentimes a pledge to the lady that he’s coming home after they win. They did win, and he did come home, but the lady is gone, and he’s here collecting sexual favours from the son of a good friend. There is so much wrongness in that thought, Steve sinks his _teeth_ into Tony’s exposed shoulder. He’s careful not to break skin – _damn it_ a _ll to Hell_ – he wills the shame away.

 

It won’t go.

 

His free hand gropes about Tony’s front, over the cotton shirt he wears to his sleep. It too carries a whiff of vodka and overnight sweat. It drives Steve insane, and he needs to… needs this heat in his core to dissipate. It’s hardly pleasurable though he’s harder than ever – Tony is back to pumping their shafts in long, measured strokes – and he needs to…

 

“Christ, Rogers –”

 

“Shut up.”

 

Not enough. Stupid shirt –

 

Steve’s hand slips under it, and he flattens his hand over the dips and curves of Tony’s toned abdomen. There is strength and flaming passion – a man of iron will and heart, Steve respects Iron Man for that – as is vulnerability, and mortality. His hand dips lower to fiddle with the curls of dark pubic hair, and Tony lets out a whine, his pacing stuttering.

 

“Let me go,” Tony gasps. “Need both hands.”

 

Double the pressure and cover, double the fun.

 

Steve’s eyes flutter when a roughened palm close around their heads. Calluses that are proof of Tony’s genius and diligence, slogging away at his engines and bots since he was four. More litter his body – Steve is running his thumb along one, a gash that runs from Tony’s breast to his stomach – and there’s a mesh of something worse around his heart.

 

The light isn’t in his chest anymore. Just, tonnes of fibrous tissue.

 

“Stop molesting me like that,” Tony grits out, somehow managing to glare at Steve from this angle. “It’s distracting.”

 

Steve unleashes his apology in a stream of open-mouth kisses along the side of Tony’s neck, swathed in a sheen of sweat. He doesn’t poke and prod at Tony’s past injuries, content with abusing a perky nipple and the tensing flesh around his navel. He’s close, Tony’s close… their cocks sloshing with mixed precum that Tony is using for lubrication.

 

“Work on it, Stark.” The hand on Tony’s chest swoops upwards to wrap snugly around his throat. His Adam’s apple bobs in Steve’s clutch, the handjob stuttering again. “Breathe,” Steve reminds him. The muscles along his throat flex again, rebelling against the pressure Steve is putting on it.

 

“Come on. Work on it.”

 

So, this is how Tony masturbates, Steve wonders darkly. Fast strokes, with a choking grip favouring the tip region. Each man to his own. A layer of fluid in between their cocks eases the friction, so it’s not flesh on flesh anymore. Maybe he too is sick of feeling another man’s junk pressing against his.

 

Tony swallows his stream of expletives as he ejaculates at the door, his knees trembling, his weight half-supported by his forehead resting against the wood. Steve isn’t done yet, but he steps aside nevertheless, and quickly tucks himself back into his pants.

 

Tony turns around, the aftermath of an orgasm thick in the hard lines of his face. “Come here. I like to finish what I started.”

 

“It’s fine.”

 

And it’s unconvincing. Steve’s cock is a prominent, distinctly uncomfortable, _glorious_ stick in the confinement of his pants. But Steve doesn’t want Tony anywhere close to it, and Tony seems more than happy to oblige. He wipes his soiled hands in the rumple of his shirt. “Is there gonna be a next time, Cap, because I’d like to carry tissue paper on my person if so.”

 

Steve doesn’t answer, and waits for Tony to lock eyes with him. He needs to see it in those hazel irises himself. He needs to see that Tony is OK. And he gets more that he bargains for – Tony folds his arms across his chest, and smirks that playboy smirk like he’s _won_ something.

 

Dick.

 

“I’ll make you a deal.” The words spill from Steve’s lips before he can stop himself. “I will not tolerate rogue members in my team. If you want to stay an Avenger, keep your goddam toe behind the line. If you cross it, I’ll come for you.”

 

Threatening people so they bow to his commands isn’t quite his MO, but there’s something about Tony that’s _begging_ to be subdued. An open challenge: _beat him at his arena_. It takes quite a person to conquer a man like Tony Stark.

 

“Even dentists give their kid patients lolly when they behave. Don’t I get one when I play ball with you guys?”

 

“… If you want one.”

 

“Looking forward, Cap.”


	5. Chapter 5

Steve hopes that amount of verbal menacing was enough to keep Tony on his best behaviour twenty-four seven, eight days a week. What happens instead is, he doesn’t see Tony in person for the next four days. Unsettling. He purposely parks himself in shared areas of the Tower, the kitchen mostly, because despite the sprawling floorspace the Tower has, Tony only stashes his best coffee beans in this cabinet _here_ , the one Steve is currently leaning against. If Tony wants his caffeine, he has to go through Steve. Literally.

 

Four days, no kidding. Even JARVIS doesn’t take his questions anymore. He rides the elevator down to the basement workshop one evening, see if maybe Tony is there. He is. The lights are on, AC/DC blaring from the PA system. As long as Steve doesn’t find a half-rotting corpse slumped over one of those expensive workbenches, it’s fine.

 

One Wednesday morning, Steve jogs into the kitchen wanting to make himself breakfast and he sees _Clint Barton_ lounging by the fridge, elbow-deep in a tub of ice-cream. So, Clint’s back from SHIELD duties, which means he gets immediately placed on the Avengers active roster. That brings up the number of Avengers on stand-by to… three.

 

“Where’s the God Emperor?” Clint asks between spoonful of chocolatey decadence.

 

“Somewhere.”

 

“Still alive?”

 

“Likely. Well, speak of the devil.”

 

Tony appears out of thin air and surveys the occupants in the kitchen. Steve is kind of miffed that Tony kind of glances at him, preferring to address Clint with all the chumminess of a decade-old friend. “I see you’re back. Since when?” They chat – by “they”, Steve means Clint and Tony – and it strikes him as odd, because Tony is incapable of being socially ungraceful. Steve chalks it up to Tony being raised in front of camera, under the spotlight of public attention and scrutiny, in the embrace of fair-weather-friends and wolves-in-sheep’s’-clothing.

 

Steve wishes for his friendship. And it’s what Tony is offering to the Avengers. No matter how much he tries to mask his sincere generosity with sarcasm and humour as dry as the vodka martinis he often has for nightcaps. Today, Tony’s gifting Clint a quiver of exploding arrows he’s been tinkering with the past week – nice to finally know what has stolen so much of Tony’s attention lately – and offers to run a demo at the gym. They make to leave, barstools scrapping against the tiled floor, and Steve’s butt stays glued to his seat. He’s only halfway through his cereal.

 

At the doorway though, Tony stops and turns back to him. “Rogers, aren’t you coming? It’s gonna be cool.”

 

Steve promptly drops his spoon and joins them.

 

The exploding arrows are magnificent. Tony certainly designs them with Clint’s abilities in mind. In the hands of a lesser marksman, these arrows are nothing but low-grade grenades the shape of toothpicks. They don’t pack enough power to be lethal, and the damage area is pretty much confined to a radius of one meter.

 

“You might not want to blow things up big time, _all the time_ , right? So, if you need to take out something quickly from a distance, say, an evil microwave from the opposite apartment, you can do just that from your sniper’s nest. And they’re safe to handle. They need to be launched from your bow and hit certain speeds before they’re triggered.”

 

“Very thoughtful,” Clint agrees, and goes off shooting them arrows at punching bags. Watching them burst, spraying sand everywhere like a caricature of arterial puncture is ghastly satisfying. Suddenly, Steve doesn’t feel too guilty about the damages he’s incurred while perusing the facilities.

 

Steve and Tony hang out on the bench like two moms watching their kids having fun in the sandbox. Tony uncrosses his legs and asks, “That’s a good thing I did for the team, isn’t it?”

 

“… It’s called doing your job.”

 

“That’s calculative. So, no rewards, then?”

 

Steve doesn’t like the tinge of challenge trailing the question.  

 

“Are you asking?”

 

“I’m asking.”

 

Clint is nocking three arrows onto his bowstrings. Steve doesn’t have to watch on to confirm if they meet their targets. Tony winces when Clint whoops at the mini-Chernobyl he has going on in his shooting range, and sticks a finger into his ear. “If I stay here any longer, I’m gonna bust an eardrum.”

 

“Your invention.”

 

“In my defence, I did not anticipate that amount of love. It’s flattering.”

 

“How many arrows did you make him?”

 

“… Enough to last him a while.”

 

“Guys?” Clint is holding his bow up, and the sudden loss of explosive chaos is momentarily disorienting. “I ran out of arrows. Sorry, I used them all up, Stark. They’re awesome.”

 

“Sure they are, buddy.” The compliment is worth enduring the ringing in his ears, so Tony gives him a thumb-up. He huffs apologetically at Steve. “Another time then.”

 

“I’ll uh, call for housekeeping later.” That corner Clint is standing at looks more like patches of the Sahara than a gym. At this rate, funding the Avengers will completely bankrupt Tony. Just give them a couple of months. “I’m heading off to the showers. Catch you guys later?”

 

Tony’s about to head out as Clint treks past the sandy mats, but Steve stills him by the wrist, and plain ignores the what-are-you-up-to eyebrow-rise Tony gives him. Now is as good a time as any, right? The showers are located at the back, each stall separated by sturdy cubicles to afford users some privacy.

 

“We haven’t seen Clint in a while. He looks like he can use the company.”


	6. Chapter 6

“Clearly, I don’t know you at all.” Tony whispers as he throws the last of his morning wear into the laundry basket, and takes the towel Steve is proffering. “This is your idea of entertainment?”

 

“It’s yours, too.”

 

“That was just one time, and it was unintentional. You were skulking in a dark corner, and neither of us have super-sight.”

 

Clint has started showering, his out-of-tune humming drowning their hissing spits. Steve steps back from the entryway. “We don’t have to do this.”

 

“Is that English for ‘I triple dare you’?”

 

“It’s not.” Putting words in his mouth, classy. Steve sighs wearily, and points at the unoccupied cubicle two door down from Clint’s. “I’m saying, you asked for a reward, and I’m giving it. With one condition. Get in there.”

 

“Tony?” Clint shouts, and the spraying of water against wet tiles dies down. “Is that you?”

 

“Yeah,” he replies quickly at Steve’s prompting eyebrows. “I can use a shower myself.”

 

The water comes back on, and the horrible singing resumes. This time, Tony marches resolutely towards the indicated cubicle, and stands under the shower head. Nice to know that the prick is capable of listening to instructions after all. “Well, how was your mission? I’m sorry _Rogers_ put you up on the active roster so soon. You deserved a break.”

 

What was he thinking? That Tony would take his shit lying down?

  
“It’s fine. Mission came and went and I didn’t even realise it. Where’s Cap?”

 

Steve joins him in the cubicle – like, finally – and closes the door with a curt snap. “Upstairs.” Tony mouths the words “ _what’s-this_ ” the best he can while flicking at the sleeve of Steve’s grey undershirt. It’s not quite fair for only one of them to be butt-naked. Responding absolutely in-character, Steve ignores him, and reaches behind him to turn on the shower. Hot water so soothing to the weariest flesh hit them square on their heads.

 

In one fluid swipe, Steve pulls the towel free from Tony’s waist, and tosses is over the cubicle’s door.

 

“Where’s Nat?” Tony bites out, and turns to face the wall. He flattens his palms against the tiles that are slowly heating up with the water.

 

“Keep your hands on the wall.” Steve’s clothes stick to his body in no time. “And keep talking to Clint.” He feels Tony shudder against his front, and it exaggerates when he rests a free hand on that narrow waist. This tanned, leanly sculpted body, so malleable like hot butter – now coated with body shampoo - isn’t the body of a genius-billionaire-playboy-philanthropist.

 

Powerful. _Scarred_. Still so many scars.

 

Steve washes Tony’s throat, his large hand closing over the a pulsing jugular. His fingernails scrape against the dips of Tony’s collarbones, where water sometimes collect, and spills when Tony stirs. Steve lets his other hand roam the expanse of Tony’s inner thigh as the other draws idle circles around the arc reactor.

 

“Will soap damage this?” he taps on the metal housing with his fingernail.

 

Tony shakes his head, and Steve closes his fist around the base of Tony’s cock. A soapy palm slides all the way to the tip. So, _hard._

 

“You OK, Tony?”

 

“… Huh?”

 

“I thought I heard something.”

 

The body in Steve’s embrace twists a little. “You mean, you aren’t deaf by now? Your singing hasn’t done that to you?”

 

“Right back at you, cowboy. I heard you yodelling last Thursday.”

 

“A recording, or it didn’t happen.”

 

It gets hotter, and steamier. He blames the shower. Steve pushes himself up against Tony, all kinds of liquid lubricating the friction. Polyester on barren buttocks, hot breaths on ruddy cheeks. He can get used to this. Is this Tony’s reward, or his?

 

He drops to his knees, and takes half of Tony’s cock in his mouth.  


“Fuck –”

 

“What?”

 

“Ah… spider.” Steve’s plump lips close over the head, his tongue doing manoeuvres nobody would ever imagine are in _Captain America_ ’s repertoire. “Christ…” Is it that surprising? He has a junk, it has been in mouths before – he’s ninety-six, he’s not dead – and he knows how to work it best.

 

The way Tony watches him with half-lidded eyes suggests that yep, he doesn’t know what’s coming.

 

Steve pulls the cock out, and slams it flat against the nest of pubic hair. Balls exposed, he latches onto them, tonguing the tauten sack and Tony’s hands fly up to cup his mouth.

 

“Spider, huh? Well, speaking of which, Nat says hey. Her target is doing some really crazy stuff, so her mission is going to take a bit longer.”

 

“Uh-huh.”

 

“… You’re weird today, man. Water too hot or something?”

 

Steve releases his balls with a satisfyingly loud smack, and Tony bops his shoulder with his knee. There’s an assassin showering two doors down and Steve is trying to be a smartass. “Spider is _really_ getting on my nerves.”

 

“Just pick it up and toss it outside. It’ll find its way out.”

 

Steve takes Tony back in, down the entire shaft, the tip swabbing against the inside of his cheek. It gets impossibly hotter by the second, and he works at it, up and down relentlessly. His finger creeps upward to the unguarded asshole –

 

“No –”

 

Tony flinches so hard the cubicle itself rattles as he pushes against it. He bats away Steve’s offending hand, and Clint turns the shower off. “No what?”

 

The game’s up. It was good while it lasted. Steve gets up, and he retakes Tony’s cock in his hands and pumps. He knows Tony’s close. He knows how Tony always moves a little too sharply, breathes a little too unevenly when he’s close –

 

“Tony?”

 

“ _Shit_ –”

 

Steve bites down on his own lips when Tony’s _teeth_ clamp down on his shoulder, coming there and then into Steve’s hand. Semen runs between his fingers, and swirls into the drain hole. Some splatter against the front of Steve’s shirt.

 

The deed is done, and Clint is none the wiser. A close shave.

 

“Hey,” Clint knocks on the door, but their hearts are already working overtime. “Open the door. Let me see you.”


	7. Chapter 7

Tony’s eyes snap back on Steve like a taut rubber band released. The banging on the door increases in force and tempo. It’s just a board of PVC ratting in a stainless-steel frame. Won’t take a Hulk to bust through it. The cubicle walls are built too high up towards the ceiling, so no way Steve could climb and sneak into the adjacent stalls. No way he could walk out the door with a straight face, high-five Clint like a macho motherfucker and let bygone be bygone.

 

Steve flattens himself against the wall, creeps as close as he can get to the hinge, and motions for Tony to get the door.

 

“Tony! Open up!”

 

Tony frees the sliding lock, and holds the door open to a crack just wide enough to show his face. “Jesus _Christ,_ Clint, can’t a man have some peace washing up?”

 

“I heard strange noises. I got worried, you know?”

 

“… You? Worried? _About me_?”

 

From the tail of his eye, Steve notices Tony covertly holding his right hand behind his back. The wiggling middle finger is not a coincidence.

 

Clint scoffs, “Don’t you know? You’re quite the special snowflake around here.”

 

“That title makes a great addition to my company’s name card, under ‘Chief Scientific Officer’.”

 

“Got to be honest, man. You’re as red as a boiled lobster.”

 

“That’s just low.”

 

“… Steve says to keep an eye out on you.”

 

Steve’s stomach plummets as Tony opens the door wider, the plastic back of it pressing painfully into Steve’s nose. “What do you mean?”

 

“He says, after the Chitauri incident…” That’s oversharing. Honesty is not always the best policy, and this is coming from Captain fucking America. Steve has half the heart of walking out right now, drenched and debauched with a cock as hard as rock sticking out from his pants, if only to shut Clint up. “You know what?” Clint suddenly laughs. “It doesn’t matter. We’re a team, we’re the _Avengers_. We look out for each other. Anyway, I’m uh, going up now. Haven’t eaten a thing since supper.”

 

Clint bolts. Steve wants to bolt, too. The pressure on his nose eases and Tony steps away from the door. His demeanour changes completely – God, Clint was right, Tony’s completely red in the face, the culmination of shower steam and vigour of their recent… activities. And Tony just stares at Steve, expressionless, on and on like he has questions queuing up but doesn’t know which to ask first.

 

Stuck in a 36- by 36-inch cubicle with a speechless Tony Stark can’t get more awkward than this.

 

One week later, Natasha radios in on the day Clint says she’s scheduled to come back. She says, “I can’t come back yet. This one is less of an idiot than I expected. Give me another week. Or a year. Nick says this village is famous for their eggnog, says I should try it out. It’s August, damn it. I’m sorry, Steve. Can I borrow Clint?”

 

Steve weighs in the state of the Avengers. He either loses the Widow for possibly until year end – Nick Fury doesn’t dick around when he throws blackmails like that – or he loses her _and_ Clint for hopefully half that time, and tries holding down the fort here in New York with Tony. SHIELD radars have been quiet for close to a year, and there aren’t signs of anything insidious in the planning.

 

Clint packs his bags that evening, and the Tower belongs to Steve and Tony again. Correction: since Tony has taken up permanent residency in his basement workshop, that leaves all two floors of the Avengers living quarters to Steve. What can one man do with all those space? Steve has even taken to napping in the living room, and catching up on SHIELD paperwork in the kitchen and dining room, hoping to bump into Tony on the off-chance he decides to reload his coffee mug or fix a sandwich.

 

On the sixth consecutive day of The Invisible Iron Man, Steve almost wants to impersonate food delivery guys. Tony only speaks to them these days.

 

That midnight though, SHIELD demands an urgent teleconference with the Avengers because of suspicious electromagnetic activities in a country off the coast of Mediterranean – Sokovia. That’s when the issue gets hairy. SHIELD has no representatives there, and neighbouring allies are reluctant to offer entryway across their borders. Why SHIELD think the Avengers will be of any help is anybody’s guess, Steve thinks darkly as he strokes the “A” printed on the forehead of his cowl.

 

That “A” certainly doesn’t stand for Sokovia.

 

The teleconference ends in under an hour. The strange EM waves subside fifteen minutes since detection, and SHIELD engineers suspect malfunctioning tech. Much ado over nothing, then. Steve bids Fury good night, and shuts the connection.

 

Tony is still nowhere to be found. Someone is skiving off Avengers duty again.

 

Steve forgoes sleep that night to pitch a figurative tent in front of Tony’s workshop. The interior may be dark, punctuated by flashes of something psychedelic. Steve is certain there’s still somebody in there, sciencing, to the extent of _ignoring_ the general safety of the universe. No amount of tinkering is worth that. When the disco lights subside, Steve waits for up to an hour for Tony to voluntarily ooze out of the workshop.

 

Nada.

 

He keys in Captain America’s override code, and welcomes himself in.


	8. Chapter 8

Tony is easy enough to locate despite the lack of light. His chest is a beacon that calls Steve to it, and he heeds it, stepping closer like a feline would. He looms over Tony, fast asleep in his cot and smells vaguely of soap. Glad to know that personal hygiene ranks above Avengers duties. He’s been brainstorming. Tony has given him _yet_ another reason to get creative.

 

The rhythm in Tony’s breathing rises. His eyes pop open, startling Steve –

 

“Fuckin’ _hell_ – Rogers!”

 

The lights come back row by row, illuminating the workshop in stages. Steve quickly clamps a hand over Tony’s mouth – it looks like it’s about to scream something nasty – and shoves him back into the mattress. “Be quiet!” Tony struggles against him, legs kicking out, blunt fingernails scrabbling at his knuckles.

 

“You know why I’m here.”

 

Tony’s baggy eyes widen in comprehension, and he nods.

 

“You know what I’m doing to you.”

 

His fingers close tighter about Steve’s wrists.

 

“Nick called for a meeting just now because their radars picked up some anomalies. You weren’t present.” He lets Tony’s jaws go, and backpedals from the cot. The peak in Tony’s pants is telling. Masochistic little shit, this one. “We’re going to the Triskelion.”

 

“We are?” Tony’s voice is still gruff with sleep. He sits up straighter. “It’s a four hours’ drive.”

 

“ _And_ you’re going to repair any malfunctioning equipment. Voluntarily. We need the radars up pronto, and you’re the best engineer we got.”

 

“Flattering. But, I can’t up and go at a moment’s notice. I’ll check my schedule, hit me again in an hour.”

 

Steve is on to Tony again before either can even draw the next breath. Steve cups the bulge between Tony’s thigh – surprised by the enormity of it.

 

“ _Christ_ –” Tony doubles over, a short cry escapes his lips. Don’t mistake Steve’s lack of aggression for weakness. His heart is hardened, the force of his fist punishing. And he isn’t about to let up.

 

“Are we going to DC, Stark?” The fight leaves Tony. He weakly bunches a corner of Steve’s sleeve, a silent plea for mercy.

 

Steve eases off a fraction.

“Yeah. Yeah… I need…” Incoherency. A dire need to breathe. “Need to get changed.”

 

Steve knows how powerful men like Tony work. He’s a consummate negotiator. His diplomacy sways even the cruellest of supervillains. With his words, he whips his board of directors into compliance _._ Pepper notwithstanding, Tony cowers before nobody else. Confidence and _arrogance_ occupies opposite sides of the same coin. Tony has them in spades.

 

But, it’s all about to change.

 

“Wear this.” Steve snatches something black draping the armrest of the adjacent couch. He can’t make out what it actually is, but it has a zipper that runs all the way down the front. It has sleeves. Good enough for him.

 

He throws it callously at Tony’s chest. “Change here.”

 

Tony lifts it up with only his thumb and index finger like a pincer, and appraises it with aghast. “You want me to go meet Nick in this jumpsuit? It’s a very nice jumpsuit. Fireproof. I can change into a nice Burberry suit in four minutes.”

 

The cot’s metal frame creak under both their weights as Steve climbs into it. “What are you doing?”

 

The top three buttons on Tony’s dress shirt, faded with wear, Steve manages to undo in a breeze. He drags a finger from the base of Tony’s throat to the dip of his collar bone, and over the reinforced glass of the arc reactor. How odd, to light up so brightly but remain so cool to touch. Even the scars crisscrossing around it are fascinating.

 

Tony has stopped breathing.

 

“I know what this is. What it does,” Steve comments impassively, and pushes the rest of the fabric off Tony’s back. “I won’t use it against you. That, I promise.”

 

“Will you hurt me?”

 

Half-kneeling this closely to Tony, Steve notices the little things. How chapped Tony’s lips are, and how a particularly large gash is speckled with dried blood. A workshop mishap? Steve’s thumb brushes against the border, and it scrapes. Dehydration. And it’s awfully chilly in here, a fact he’s only come to realise since he burns like a furnace himself. The stress lines on Tony’s cheeks are more pronounced, the bags under his eyes a little greyer than Steve remembers.

 

“Have you been sleeping?” A question that barely rises above his breath, but it startles Tony all the same. His tongue makes this _annoying_ clicking sound, that Steve feels less bad about unravelling the drawstrings of Tony’s sweatpants completely.

 

“Any reason to see me naked, huh? Feast your eyes, Rogers.”

 

“Put on that jumpsuit. And we’re taking your hobby car for the trip.”

 

Said car is a gorgeous Audi R8 that Tony uses for his billionaire-equivalent of a milk run. It’s also the one Tony loves tinkering with the most. Steve knows the windows have tricks. They’re coated with an experimental nanofiber that turns opaque when electric pulses through them. It’s Tony’s ingenious idea of having his cake and eating it too, by not-quite-flouting traffic regulations on glass tints. Too bad it’s come to bite him back in the ass. Steve intends to fully take advantage of it.

 

“Where’s the keys?”

 

“For the car? That drawer.”

 

Steve doesn’t stop at the keys. Tony eyes him hesitantly when he fetches a coil of rope from the benchtop.

 

“I’ll drive,” he says, and nudges Tony to the elevator.


	9. Chapter 9

The world as Steve knows it is gone. Perhaps not lost, but changed. _Evolved._ People like Tony populate it. People who preach tolerance and gender and racial equality as often as people used to quote the Bible back in the days. A new form of independence and individuality that Steve still tries to wrap his head about.

 

Anyway, he’s here now. Why look back when there’s so much more to do?

 

He chooses to serve the country the way he knows best. He follows orders. _Keeps_ the order. Does things by the book, because in the big cheese he trusts. He’s whatever colour they paint him.

 

They say, management is doing things right. _Leadership is doing the right things._

 

Tony is truly an enigma wrapped in a taco of mystery. To put things into perspectives, Steve has fought with the best of men, shared bunks and bled and _killed_ with them, but never knew if that Sergeant from Louisiana was ever married with kids. Point is, not one day passes without a mention of Tony Stark in the bulletins somewhere – in print or online. Steve sleeps two floors below Tony. Eats food cooked in his kitchen, showered with water paid for by him.

 

He doesn’t really know Tony.

 

Leadership and learning are indispensable to each other.

 

Slowly. He’ll get there. He’ll crack Tony.

 

“Blow me, Stark.”

 

He knows how to work that body. He knows how far back Tony can bend, how tense his muscles can go before they tear. Tony _always_ responds to Steve gripping his waist, fingers dipping into the beginning of curves of his buttocks. Just by closing a palm over the arc reactor, Steve can render him completely docile. He fears for his life, yet he allows Steve to inevitably strips him off his clothes, and superficial dignity, and edges him to a giddy climax.

 

Steve will wield the pleasure of the body, to subjugate his will.

 

“It’s my pleasure we’re caring about today, not yours. Get down here. Blow me.”

 

They’ve been cruising along the Turnpike for close to an hour half. Traffic is reasonably clear, and the autodrive function unique to this car is God-sent. Steve frees his hands and unbuckles his belt. “What,” he raises a brow at Tony, who’s still ogling at Steve like he’s grown wings. “We have a deal. Or are you gonna quit this?”

 

“Either quit the game, or quit the Avengers. That it, right?” Tony tugs at his safety belt to make more space as he leans into Steve’s lap. He pulls the zipper down and fishes for Steve’s semi-flaccid cock. “I’ll take the dick anytime – hey!”

 

Steve wrenches his head up by his hair. “You’re doing this on your volition, Stark. Don’t put words in my mouth.”

 

“You’re thinking it. I’m saying it.”

 

“I’m not _thinking_ it that way,” the anger barely contained in his hisses. There’s just them in the car, what is he ashamed of?

 

The absence of a conscience?

 

“… Do you want me to suck you off or not?” Tony slaps away Steve’s hand, and starts worshipping the hunk of flesh. He’s clearly within his comfort zone, servicing and making a show out of it. The way he drags his tongue up from the balls to the tip signifies experience. His lips close around it, and he goes down again. In the warm, wet cavern Steve’s cock hits against the back of his throat.

 

He coughs, and Steve’s instinct is to push him up and help him breathe.

 

There’s something wrong, very wrong with Steve… to get so _turned on_ watching Tony steady himself, and take the plunge for more. He doesn’t go too deeply – once bitten, twice shy – and changes strategy. Just a slight turn of his chin, all the right spots in the head rub incessantly against his cheek. Still feels like deepthroating.

 

It’s incredible, and Tony knows it. Steve feels a growing smile on the edge of his lips.

 

He sits up, a thread of precum and saliva glistening in his trimmed beard. “Was that fun?”

 

“I haven’t finished.”

 

“Finish it yourself. You’re not driving.”

 

“Honour your side of the deal, Stark.” Steve pushes a button with the window icon, and their surroundings dim somewhat. The glass has turned opaque. “You’re always cutting corners when it comes to issues _you think_ don’t matter. Unzip your jumpsuit. All the way down.”

 

And Tony’s own hard-on spills from his clothes.

 

“Touch yourself.”

 

“Oh, you sick son of a bitch.”

 

That’s about the fiercest protest Tony manages, before he spreads his legs the widest he could in the passenger seat, and pumps his cock at full speed. Burt, Steve won’t look. He watches the road instead, wary of other cars speeding past them while the _slap, slap, slap_ of Tony’s fist being the only music to his ears. His own erection abandoned, Steve has half the heart to resume driving manually, if only to take his mind of –

 

Tony’s mouth is on him again. His head bobs up and down, before he tilts to the side and brushes Steve’s cock against his tongue and cheek and roof – everywhere, Steve’s flavour must be intoxicating –

 

“Stark –”

 

He comes into Tony’s mouth, and he’s _so_ _sorry_ – God – that he’s about to accidentally swerve their car off the railing when his hand nearly grabs the steering wheel for purchase. His semen splatters unabashedly across the front of Tony’s suit and face.

 

His macho victory that sets his own face on fire.

 

“Don’t worry about it.” Tony wipes his chin with the back of his hand. “I have tissue in the glove box. You want some?”

 

“… Thanks.”

 

Tony doesn’t jerk himself after that. He zips his suit up, and continues to stare out of the window. This isn’t exactly what Steve demanded, but he’s fine with conceding this time. Until the next adventure, that is. He never thought of ever revisiting this phone number. To it, he texts:

 

_Come to DC. Triskelion’s foyer. You have five hours. Two thousand dollars, upfront._


	10. Chapter 10

Stark Industries isn’t technically in charge of maintaining SHIELD’s weaponries and equipment, even if their top-secret projects _do_ come direct from SI’s vaults. Every piece designed personally by Tony himself. The Merchant of Death, the back-then child prodigy of smart artilleries. It’s good business, but something tells Steve money isn’t the only motivation.

 

What does Tony have to prove? That he’s a better SHIELD benefactor than his father before him?

 

Tony has fallen asleep sometime after they passed Baltimore. Steve turns off the radio, and raises the indoor temperature. The jumpsuit doesn’t offer much protection against the elements.

 

That’s another problem with Tony, Steve muses – his erratic sleeping pattern post-Chitauri incident. He’s almost always sleep or _actually snoozing_ when Steve goes to check on him. Is this the same man who claimed to be allergic to sleeping, and subsisted on obscene amount of black coffee to keep his body running?

 

Before long, the Triskelion looms in the vicinity.

 

“Stark,” Steve jostles him firmly about the shoulder. “Wake up.”

 

Tony jerks upright, eyes wide open like a raving loon. His elbow misses Steve’s nose by an inch. “What’s up? What happened?”

 

“… We’re here.”

 

“DC? Already?”

 

“The Triskelion’s parking lot, actually. Let’s go. We’re expected.”

 

Steve finds it odd having to glance back every so often to make sure Tony is keeping up with him. He realises how Tony is constantly lagging half a step, which is odd, because even on off-days – and Tony has as many as a non-enhanced superhero would – he has no problem keeping up with Captain America’s stride, with or without the suit. Take it from everybody who’s worked slash lived with Tony, _nobody_ has to worry about him going MIA. He’s always front and centre everywhere he goes.

 

“Walk faster,” Steve eventually hisses, his patience running thin. “What are you playing at?”

 

“I’m _trying_! It’s been a long day, all right?”

 

Then again, brisk walking naked in a baggy jumpsuit must be quite an experience. As they approach the steps leading up to the foyer, a man holds the door open and salutes. “Captain Rogers, Colonel Fury is expecting you in his office.”

 

“We’re heading there. You’re all geared up. Another assignment?”

 

“Yeah, we’re rolling out in thirty. Thought of grabbing something to eat in the meantime. Mr Stark.”

 

Tony waves, and the man is soon on his merry way to Subway next door. Steve leads them to the elevators, occasionally nodding and greeting at passing men and women with a friendly, “Agent.”

 

“Security,” a sullen-looking Agent stops them by the barricade. “Captain, Mr Stark.”

 

“I’ll go first,” Steve volunteers, and he holds his arms outstretched as they wave a sensor over and under him.

 

“Clear. Mr Stark?”

 

And the crafty Steve interjects, “Metal sensors won’t work on him. Allow me.” He ignores Tony’s reproachful glare, and beckons him to assume the same open, vulnerable position to aid inspection.

 

“Bet you’re loving every second of this,” Tony mutters under his breath, as Steve pats him about his shoulder.

 

“More than you can imagine.”

 

Steve bypasses the arc reactor in Tony’s chest, and the supervising Agents did not complain. Emboldened, the frisking continues in earnest. Tony makes his discomfort obvious, grunting as Steve prods him under his armpits, along his flanks and turns his pockets inside out. “You could’ve just asked,” Tony snaps, annoyed. Steve’s fingers just grazed the length of Tony’s limp cock. All to the blissful ignorance of everyone.

 

“Feet apart, Stark.”

 

Down, down, down Steve goes, rubbing along Tony’s thighs, knees, shins and ankles, before coming back up to slide a hand up along an inner thigh, ending _just_ before his crotch. One could hide a derringer in here, he reasons. Best to err on the side of caution.

 

“Done, Captain?” Tony purrs, irritation unmistakably clear in his syllables. Steve lets his hand linger a second longer, his lips twisting into a sardonic smirk as the jumpsuit tents in between Tony’s legs.

 

“Stark’s clean, gentlemen. Are we clear to go?”

 

Fury’s office is located on the Main Tower some fifty floors up. The journey will take a while, and Tony has taken to swallowing saliva every other second to equalise the pressure in his ears. Seems troublesome.

 

“Touch yourself.”

 

Naturally, Tony does a show of chugging more spit like his life depends on it, because that can’t be what Captain America just asked of him, right?

 

“You heard me. There’s no camera, no eyes watching.”

 

Not bothering with protesting or bargaining this time, Tony’s hand drops to his crotch where it grips a cylindrical length propping against his left thigh. His fingers curl tightly around it, stroking it lazily, eyes boring holes into the button panels. Probably willing the ascent to quicken telepathically.

 

Steve isn’t all that interested in this silly exhibition to begin with, but he loves watching Tony and his ego squirm.

 

They exit the elevator as Avengers towing their respective erections. _That_ , Steve did _not_ see coming.

 

Coincidentally, Fury emerges from his office as they march towards it. “Captain Rogers,” he greets, and his brows float to his non-existent hairline when he sees Tony – again, half a pace behind Steve. “Mr Stark. I was not expecting you.”

 

“Me either.”

 

“We’re here to offer our assistance in fixing those radars,” Steve speaks up, peering at Tony icily before stepping into Fury’s office. “Earth is open to interplanetary threats while security is down. The skies have been quiet for a while, but it’s a chance we should not have to take.”

 

“That’s why we have them fixed three hours ago.”

 

Tony perks up. “You fixed them?”

 

“Yes, Mr Stark. Can’t risk another visit from the Chitauri now, can we? Who knows what else is out there?”

 

This must be Tony’s lucky day, to have escaped what must be like chores to him by the skin of his teeth. The radars are up, the systems are functional. There’s no need for an engineer working overtime here. Instead of celebrating or gloating at Steve for the wasted effort of making the four-hour trip down to DC, he pales considerably, his chest heaving with exertion.

 

His eyes seek out Steve’s, and his voice is strained when he asks for permission to go to the gents. No wisecracking, just an honest expression for his desire to leave the room.

 

Steve nods, and Tony’s gone in a heartbeat.


	11. Chapter 11

Fury sits in his chair and gestures to a vacant one opposite him. “Stark still giving you trouble?”

 

“… No, Sir. He’s preoccupied with other projects.”

 

It’s not like Steve is keeping scores, but that’s one more favour he did for Tony, putting in some good words so Fury doesn’t kick him off the Avengers roster permanently. Even as the meeting proceeds, Steve sits through it semi-distracted, wondering if Tony will join them. He doesn’t, just to be clear, but Fury doesn’t question his absence, so Steve is more than happy to play along. When Steve finally excuses himself, now toting a non-descript package the size of a soap bar, the first question on his mind was where in pluperfect hell is Tony Stark.

 

Fine, want to be like that? He’s dumping Tony’s ass in DC and driving home. Alone.  

 

And why is he not surprised to find Tony loitering by the reception counter at the grand foyer, flirting with the twenty-something red-head wearing a tight pencil skirt?

 

“Mr Stark,” Steve makes a beeline for them, and Tony acknowledges him with an annoyed glance. “We were wondering where you might be.”

 

“Oh, the meeting is over? Goodness. I was thinking of inviting Audrey here for tea –”

 

“I apologise, Mr Stark,” she flushes, and instantly scoots a good yard away from her desk under Steve’s piercing gaze. “I didn’t know you were in between meetings.”

 

“It’s fine. It’s over anyway.”

 

“Not yet,” Steve waves his package right under Tony’s nose, a surreptitious indication that the day is far from over. “Nick needs a dead drop loaded. I just offered our services.”

  
“Jesus _Christ,_ your one hour must be worth five other Agents’. Can’t they send someone else on the milk run?”

 

“Class six clearance, Stark. You’re coming with me.”

 

“Right. A SHIELD assignment, then.” Tony steals another glance at the lady. A muscle in Steve’s cheek ticks. “Too bad. I’m all dressed up in a mechanic jumpsuit. My armours are all locked up in the vault, so –”

 

“We’re not expecting company. Excuse us, ma’am.”

 

Steve promptly turns on his heels and leaves, assured that Tony will follow. That’s another favour he’s done for Tony there, help him save some face in front of a dame. He would be fine with hauling Tony out of the Triskelion by his collars.

 

“I didn’t volunteer for this, Rogers,” Tony barks his protests once they breach the perimeter of the parking lot. “I’m leaving.”

 

“You’re not.”

 

“Yeah? Watch me –” and he’s suddenly pinned against the side of the car, his front flushed against the window. Zippers, so many zippers bite into his chaffed flesh while Steve and his dead weight is all but against him. “Get off me.”

 

“Watch your attitude when you’re parading your Avenger identity, Stark.”

 

“I am who I am. Which incidentally is none of your fucking business.”

 

“Always wanting, don’t you? Ever been on the receiving end, Stark?” Freeing one arm, Steve cups a globe of Tony’s buttock, and shamelessly kneads him in full view of anyone in the vicinity. “I can give you what you want.” He drags the tips of all four fingers between the cheeks. “Just ask.” Pressing into the entrance –

 

“Stop.”

 

“… Stop what?”

 

“Stop this. Not today.”

 

Steve peels away from Tony, and wrenches open the car door with minimal effort even with Tony draping over it. “That’s not up to you. Get in. I still have a package to deliver.”

 

Between Fury’s assignment and the text message that says briefly _“I’m where you want me”_ and the pounding of Black Sabbath from the radio, Steve has no intention to molest Tony any more than he already has today. Whatever it is that’s been eating Tony up from the inside, is beginning to show in his demeanour. His expression is drawn, his fingers constantly ticking to the pacing of his thoughts – Steve doubts he’s listening to a word coming out of Ozzy Osbourne’s mouth.

 

Rounding a block somewhere downtown, he parks his car near a back alley and pulls the handbrake up. The crank jolts Tony from his stupor.

 

“I should be back in ten minutes. If not, call SHIELD for backup.”

 

Tony begins to unbuckle his seat belt. “I can cover you.”

 

“No, you don’t have a suit with you.”

 

“… Right.” A familiar haughtiness crosses his face.  “‘Cause I’m nothing without the suit.”

 

“If I don’t make it back, it’s not an opponent you can handle without the suit. This isn’t up for debate, Stark. I’m not risking your safety needlessly.” He closes the door behind him and peers through the crack of the window. “Watch the clock. Stay here.”

 

He’s not that cruel. Read between the lines – he’s gifting Tony a way out, despite how today has transpired. That’s ten minutes of a head start should Tony wants to mount an escape. The key is purposely left in the ignition. All Tony needs to do is to hop into the driver’s seat and speed off, fat middle finger a-waving.

 

So, imagine Steve’s surprise to find the car exactly where he left it. Tony, too remains strapped to the passenger seat, though the radio has been mercifully turned off.

 

“You’re still here,” Steve deadpans.

 

“You sound surprised.”

 

He doesn’t think much of that, and pulls his car back to re-join the traffic. “ _You_ will be.”

 

There’s one more item on his to-do in DC, and he takes the right turn into the 9th, where a pizzeria is located. Tony doesn’t seem to have noticed how the crowd and traffic has thinned since the dead drop zone, content with staring out of the window. All the better, because Steve can’t hide the smirk when the _male escort_ Tony brought back to the Tower once upon a time raps on his side of the window, and waves.

 

“Mr Stark,” he greets charmingly, and invites himself into the backseat. He nods at Steve, and says, “What can I do for you, Captain?”


	12. Chapter 12

It’s a four hours’ drive back to New York. Four hours trapped. Four hours for Tony to learn who gets to call the shot.

 

“Shall we continue where we left off, Mr Stark?”

 

Tony says nothing, contemplating his answers as if they’re etched on Steve’s face. For one full minute at that, silently challenging Steve to vocalise the unsaid orders.

 

“What does the good Captain have in mind?” he eventually says when Steve keeps mum. Clever. They can ping-pong the issue around but it matters not, because Steve knows this game is already in the bag.

 

“I ruined that night for you both. Accept this do-over as my apology.”

 

“Only, you’re in the car, Rogers. You weren’t part of the transaction.”

 

“I was going to be in the gym anyway. Same difference.”

 

Tony edges sideway until he’s leaning against the door instead. As if having both men in the same plane of view is any more comforting. “Milos, right?” he nods at the escort.

 

“Milos Masaryk.” A naughty smirk play on his lips. “I’ve been kept waiting for an hour half. I won’t disappoint, Mr Stark. The next four hours will be so much fun.”

 

“OK, I’m gonna have to stop you right there. The cheesy one-liners are a major boner killer.”

 

Steve snorts, but keeps his attention glued to the road ahead. “Don’t mind me though. I promise not to get us killed in a car crash.”

 

Resigned to his predestined, impromptu matchmaking, Tony leans forward as Milos freezes where he sits – perhaps he too doesn’t anticipate such forthcomingness from someone of Tony’s stature, in full view of Captain America no less. That is, until Steve stops Tony midway by a firm grip around his elbow.

 

“Of course, say no and I’ll drop Milos at the next gas station. And you apologise to Nick, make damn sure to respond to every call from SHIELD’s command centre.”

 

A way out. He _will_ honour his words. And it’s just like Tony to slap him back with the thoughtfulness and compassion shown to him. “Sure,” Tony says smoothly, his free hand already stretched out to grapple at the knot of Milos’ necktie. “Whatever you want, Cap. But I’m having this, too.” He reels the escort in with a hefty jerk, and expertly cocks his chin to a side to claim those lips fully.

 

Sensually.

 

Sounds _wet_. Steve releases Tony’s arm and mans the wheel more carefully, as he ignores the show Tony is no doubt putting on for him. Tongues delve into each other’s mouth, suckling and nipping at lips. Bodies fitting so perfectly into each other’s curves. Steve swears a motorcyclist did a double take at them as he overtook their car.  

 

A subtle moan escapes Tony, and Steve squirms in his seat. This is _not_ working the way he imagines it. They get louder as the French continues, and hands – Tony’s elbow nearly knocks into Steve’s own – start clawing at each other’s clothes. The smooth slide of a zipper cuts through the tension, until Tony suddenly stills Milos’ hand with his.

 

“Give me your tie.”

 

The satin strip comes off in one fluid tug, and Tony deftly fastens it around Milos’ eyes. A makeshift blindfold, Steve observes from the rearview mirror.

 

“Mr Stark?”

 

“It’s not a kink, darling. I’ve got something on me I don’t want you to see.”

 

“… I’ve seen plenty of things in my experience,” he purrs, and slides a hand between Tony’s thighs, cupping at the mass there. “Oh. You have nothing to be embarrassed about.”

 

“I don’t mean that part of me,” Tony bites back a grunt. “Scoot to your left. I’m putting the seat down.”

 

That’s one barrier down. Tony could’ve crossed over to the back and do whatever he needs to do with the escort in the backseat _,_ a safe distance away from Steve’s peripheral view _._ Gawking at two men making out on itself is _quite_ the distraction, even for Steve and his bottomless volume of self-restrain. He draws in measured breaths to keep his head clear, and all the Zen bullshit just flies out of the window when Tony leans his back fully against the dash, legs spread as widely as he can on the seats.

 

“… You’re blocking the sidemirror.”

 

“No, I’m not. Is this too hot for you to handle? I would do something for you, you know,” Tony waves nonchalantly at the raging erection in Steve’s lap. “But… nah.”

 

Son of a bitch.

 

Tony unzips his jumpsuit fully. The brilliance of his arc reactor goes blissfully unnoticed by the escort. His fully erect cock, already sporting a moisty head lies proudly against his lower abdomen.

 

“Come on, Milos,” Tony encourages breathlessly, one knee nudging Milos’ thigh. “What’s your next move?”

 

Still unadjusted to the sudden loss of his sight, Milos fumbles around, jittery hands exploring the expanse of Tony’s exposed body. The first things his palms rest on are the knees, and slowly he progresses upward, thumbs gliding along the inner thighs… until fingernails scrape against Tony’s taut sacs. Poor him, to have endured teasing for so long, his release denied.

 

Tony’s back arches as he lets out a long, wanting sigh when Milos grasp his cock. The car swerves sharply to the left, and Tony grapples at the dash for support.

 

“So, Mr Stark.” Another pump on his cock, and precum eventually slides along the length. “How do you want this? My hand, or my mouth?”

 

“Oh, you’re offering?”

 

Steve feels the heat of Tony’s gaze on him. How did the table turn so quickly?

 

“Your mouth, Milos,” Tony bucks his hip up. “I want your mouth.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trivia: Milos Masaryk is a minor villain in the Iron Man comics. His current alliance is *snorts* "Unicorn". There you go. I like the sound of the name, so.


	13. Chapter 13

The more Tony seems to enjoy himself, the twitchier Steve gets. Tony, for his part has been gracious enough not to invoke physical contacts with Steve in any ways. He keeps to his half of the car, and hell, somewhere between a jerk of his hip and a guttural groan, has stopped paying any attention to Steve at all. His hisses grow quieter, his attention only on Milos. The invisible wall between them and Steve grows thicker by the inch, and it feels like a breach of privacy sitting here, pretending that this doesn’t bother him.

 

 _Lying_ that the lust isn’t infectious.

 

For a motormouth, Tony is an inexplicably quiet lover. The closer and needier he gets, the stiller he is. Every muscle on his frame tenses like a coil wound tightly.

 

Milos lets Tony’s cock go with a wet pop, hungry eyes raking up Tony’s body from between his thighs. “Mr Stark, how do you want to finish?”

 

A growl of frustration trails Tony’s voice. “Must you ask now?”

 

“If you want to go all the way, we can.”

 

“Yeah, well I can’t. I’m not… I haven’t washed up. I’ve been out all day.”

 

“I have. I’ve cleaned up.” Steve hears the clink of a metal belt buckle being released. “If you’ll have me, Mr Stark.” And Milos scoots to the vacant spot behind Steve’s seat, pulling his slacks off his legs as he goes. A sight to behold indeed – Steve glances at the rearview mirror – as Milos display his uncanny flexibility. Legs folded all the way up that his ankles nearly graze his ears.

 

“… How thoughtful.” Tony gives Milos an experimental prod. “All lubed up.”

 

“Raring to go.”

 

Then, Tony holds his hand out under Steve’s elbow. The first time he acknowledges Steve since the gay parade.

 

“My wallet, Rogers.”

 

“In the glovebox.”

 

Of course Tony keeps a condom on his person. And it’s not just the one foil packet either. Slipped between a couple of bills and credit cards Steve notes at least three more. Tony pulls one out at random and fits the rubber deftly over his cock. The stories of Tony’s promiscuity are not exaggerations, after all.

 

“You do this a lot, Milos?”

 

“… Enough times.”

 

Steve does not miss the fleeting pause in Tony’s gait as he crawls on his knees towards the backseat. “Lie down.”

 

The whole scene plays out as clear as day in his mind’s eyes. He hears every creak, ever flap of flesh on flesh as Tony lines himself up. It’s amazing what imageries the human brain can conjure, to nicely substitute the absence of real visuals. He sets this up himself. He puts himself in this spot.

 

He wishes Tony’s hands that are working on Milos’ erection were on his instead.

 

“Easy, Milos.”

 

When the back of Steve’s seat rattles rhythmically with Tony’s pounding, it takes every fibre of self-control to not ram the car into the curb. He can’t complain, can’t tell them to keep the fucking to themselves because the constant smacks and moans and slapping of balls on balls are killing him. He wants to give up the charade.

 

“Milos, still all there?”

 

“… Yeah.”

 

“Is this painful?”

 

“… No.”

 

Steve checks the rearview mirror again, just to make sure nobody’s on the verge of _dying_ in the backseat. He sees Tony bearing most of Milos’ weight, angling Milos in a way that looks accommodating. All of that and Tony is _still_ thrusting into him, with grace and ease that comes so naturally. A master hard at work. It’s a shame none of the heart and empathy translates to Tony’s Avenging.

 

Milos cries out once – before he clamps his hand over his mouth.

 

“Yeah?” Tony leans forward, drawing his hip with him. “Don’t hold back.”

 

The fucking resumes, and Steve only realises how white his knuckles have become on his steering wheel. Yeah, no. He concedes. He _needs._ Maybe one squeeze? A fleeting touch. He’s _so_ hard… just once. And once is not enough. Never enough. He rubs himself through his jeans, careful not to be too showy about it. Tony will notice, but he’s ravaging the escort in the back. He can’t see, can’t be bothered to care.

 

“Coming, coming, _coming_ –”

 

Milos probably finished about the time he stops beating on the driver’s seat.

 

“Tissue, Rogers.”

 

“… You’re not done yet, Mr Stark.”

 

“I’m good. We’re done.” The jumpsuit’s zipper sings in the quiet. “You can take the tie off.”

 

And that’s how they remain for the rest of the duration. Tony doesn’t return to the passenger seat, and Steve doesn’t demand it. That’s good. That’s _merciful._ They drop off Milos at the bus terminal – he insists so, despite Steve offering to drive him home – and even with only the two of them in the wide expanse of the car, Tony stays in the back. Their passive-aggressive ignorance breaks into a worrisome level that Steve sacrifices his ego and checks the rearview mirror. And a chill runs down his spine when he catches Tony’s hazel eyes peering back at him – unwavering, _callous_.

 

Steve breaks contact first.

 

When they’re finally parked in Tony’s garage, Steve loiters by a workbench, the keys dangling from his fingers.

 

“I’ll see you at breakfast,” he says, and he drops them in Tony’s palm. What else is there to add? Should he give his thanks for the entertainment? It had been such fun. But, when Tony takes his keys without a word, without even looking at him in the eyes and walks up the stairs without ado, Steve knows sleep won’t come easily tonight.

 

And the breakfast afterward?

 

“Captain Rogers? Is everything all right?” The cool, artificial intonation of JARVIS resounds in the monotony of the garage.

 

“… No,” Steve admits bitterly. “Not really.”


	14. Chapter 14

That midnight though, Fury calls. Not SHIELD, not STRIKE – _Fury_. On Steve’s personal cell. And what Fury commands, he obeys. He leaves the Avengers Tower for the Quinjet harboured at the JFK fifteen minutes since he hangs up, and doesn’t return until three days later. What he does for Fury in those three days is his own business – call it a personal favour. Call it Nick’s request for Captain America’s… _insight._ What Steve managed to scrawl across a notepad on the kitchen counter before he bolted was equally sparse and uninformative – “Duty calls. Will be back as soon as I can.” It probably doesn't really matter, but it's only courtesy. There are no curfews, no restrictions as to the comings and goings in the Tower. So the last thing he expects to see when he trudges into the common lounge one Thursday morning, still decked in his full Captain America uniform, is the Avengers assembling.

 

What’s available of the Avengers, anyway.

 

Clint has to pick his jaw up from the carpet when he locks eyes with Steve from across the hallway. He looks _so_ conflicted, torn between hugging Steve for returning in one piece, or punching the light out of his head for the trouble.

 

“You couldn’t have called?” Clint says instead, and hangs his head in disappointment.

 

“I said I was on duty.”

 

“Yeah, well, you need to do better than that next time. Pick up your damn phone when we call, for instance.”

 

“I never received them. The signals must’ve been jammed.”

 

“Oh, that’s good to know. Something top secret?”

 

“Clint –”

 

“Yeah, confidential stuff, I get.” He bats Steve’s protests away and collapses onto the nearest couch.

 

 _Tony,_ too is among them, Steve notices belatedly. He’s sleeping, his body sprawling across the two-seater like an oversized octopus, legs dangling off the armrest. A thick book is spread atop his chest, one hand splayed over its cover to keep it in place.

 

“Doesn’t look comfortable,” Steve points at the snoozing lump, and takes the seat next to Clint. “He should’ve gone to bed?”

 

“He did that on purpose. Chose the most uncomfortable position to do his paperwork in so he wouldn’t fall asleep. Didn’t work, obviously.”

 

“On purpose? He hasn’t been sleeping?”

 

“Nope.”

 

“… Are you on stand-by? Any alerts from SHIELD?”

 

“Double nope. He’s been up waiting for you,” the last word emphasised to invoke guilt – and it’s working. “He found your note and freaked out. Went to your bedroom, made sure that all your stuff was still here. He called SHIELD, and they told him only Nat is on active duty. You were just _poof_ , gone! Hell, he sent the note to SHIELD Forensics, and triple watched every surveillance recording within the Tower.”

 

Tony still lies asleep, oblivious to Clint’s blow by blow and Steve crumpling with unease.

 

“Clint, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

 

“Yeah? Like I said, answer your phone next time.”

 

And from the tail of his eye, Tony stirs. That’s his cue. He owes an apology to his team. Most of all to Tony, Tony who is still jerking where he lies, eyes squeezed shut and lips twitching in discomfort.

 

“And _that_ ,” Clint sighs dramatically, “is why you should sleep in your own effing bed. Because I will tell Thor all about this.” He taps Tony on the forearm. “Wake up, man.”

 

Even genius-billionaire-playboy-philanthropists have bad dreams. What does he see? Having to sip freeze dried instant coffee instead of the finest Arabica flown in directly from Sumatra? Sponge cakes for snacks instead of the richest velvet? Patience obviously fraying, Clint clutches Tony by the shoulder and plain jostles him until his book falls off. “Jesus Christ, man. I’ll tell Thor _and Nat_ about this, I swear to God.” And surprise, surprise - the scare works, for Tony springs upright, chest heaving with exertion.

 

“Welcome back to the living.”

 

Too soon. Steve has to shut Clint up with a firm tug on his elbow. “Stark?” he calls out quietly. “Can you hear me?”

 

Because, there is no _focus,_ no life in the eyes that rest blankly on Steve’s features. As if nothing computes, and Steve shifts his weight a little in his meek attempt to catch Tony’s attention. Against his instincts, he reaches out for Tony’s wrist, and gently coaches him back to reality. Clint himself is tense beside him, ready to pounce at the slightest evocation of recognition. Of aggressiveness? They know this well. They know what it means to be haunted by the bygones.

 

“Tony?” Steve reaffirms his grip. “You know me.”

 

“… Yeah.” A mere whisper. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

 

And they call bullshit on that one. Clint makes for his knee and Tony flinches so hard the couch he’s sitting on propels backward by an inch. “ _Don’t touch me_.”

 

“Tony, calm down.”

 

“Don’t – I’m…” He rakes a shaky hand through his hair. “Upstairs. Now. Excuse me.”

 

Doesn’t surprise anybody when all it takes for Tony to come crashing to the floor is two miserable steps and a bump against the side of the coffee table. Steve sees it coming from a mile away, and collects Tony in his waiting embrace, only to be immediately _punched_ in the goddam nose.

 

“Let go – let me go!”

 

“Tony, calm down!” Red and hot flows freely past his philtrum, but Steve doesn’t ease up. “It’s me!”

 

Then, the hyperventilating begins, and Tony slumps entirely against Steve despite the vehemence of being stuck with anyone in close quarters. The struggles might’ve ended, but the panic doesn’t. “Calm down! Can you feel this?” He plants one of Tony’s hand against his chest, right over his beating heart. “Breathe, Tony. Easy. Do what I do.”

 

Clint volunteers to get water from the kitchen, and Steve keeps at it, though a different kind of fear begins to grip his core.

 

“You’re OK, Tony. I got you.”

 

Steve thinks he knows what’s up. He suspects. He _always_ suspects.

 

“Better?”

 

Tony exhales air from his lungs, deep and long and regains control of himself in that split of second. By the time Clint comes back with a glass half-filled, Tony is long gone, yet Steve still kneels on the carpet, distraught and beaten.

 

“Where’s Tony?”

 

“… His room.”

 

For he hears what Clint doesn’t, and he’s brought this unto himself: “ _Fuck off, Rogers. The fun is over.”_


	15. Chapter 15

That night, Tony requests for an emergency leave from Avengers duty, citing “Board members being childish” as the reason. A request he channels through JARVIS and the Avengers secured intranet. Not face to face, no. It’s formal, it’s _indifferent._ It’s so easy to overthink what goes in between the lines, but Steve okays it all the same. After all, Tony promises to be back by lunch the following day. What can go wrong in the next sixteen hours?

 

And “wrong” comes in the form of “The Goblin” – a moniker that has Steve’s eyebrow twitch during briefing. Some guy with a questionable fashion sense, all decked in a hideous lime-green mask and combat flak jacket has threatened to blow up a bank in exchange for “information”. A run-of-the-mill robbery case it is _not,_ Steve quickly learns. In the bowels of the bank, the Goblin has locked up thirteen hostages, one of them a girl aged five – the daughter of the bank’s regional manager. What information the Goblin seeks he never specifies, and that makes the Avengers, SHIELD and the NYPD nervous.

 

“Everybody in position. Our priority is the safety of thirteen hostages in the basement. STRIKE Team Alpha through the fire escape, that will take you closest to the vault.”

 

“Call it off, Cap,” a familiar static cut across Steve’s comm line. “I detect multiple sets of piezoelectric sensors planted by the entrances and exits, and uh, windows, too. My best guess, one misstep and it’ll blow.”

 

“Stark?” He didn’t call Tony in for the operation. “Is that you?”

 

“Yeah, I saw you guys on the news. You’ll want a flyer on this one.”

 

It becomes immediately clear what Tony is asking of him. “Take Clint with you.” He never lets his men go unsupported on a solo mission.

 

“… Not if he has wings _._ He’s gonna be walking all over the traps.”

 

“Drop him on the rooftop, he’ll find his way down. He’ll avoid the windows, entrances and exits. You can see the sensors. Guide him.”

 

“Thirteen people are locked up in a _basement vault_. Looking at the floor wirings, I bet there are explosives involved.” Which is English for “cornered like a rat” without means to escape to ground level short of triggering those piezo themselves and setting everything off. The hostages are as hapless as their potential rescuers. “I’m going in alone.”

 

“… STRIKE team, fall back.” Steve’s radar finally picks up Iron Man, the only red blip on his screen amidst STRIKE’s black. “You’re clear, Stark. Stay on the line.”

 

“Copy that. I’m going in.”

 

The floor-to-ceiling window on the northeast corner of the first-floor shatters as Tony blasts through it, the red-and-gold of his suit slips breaches perimeter swiftly.

 

“Cap,” Clint’s voice crackles in his ear, “Is Tony in?”

 

“He’s in.”

 

“Who’s playing backup?”

 

“No one. Stark’s right. We need a flyer on this one.”

 

Steve admits, the odds are pretty much stacked against them. They have zero visuals since the circus is largely confined to the basement. Heat sensors aren’t effective. Snipers like Clint are as useful as a third nipple. Only Iron Man is equipped with the means to detect the piezo _and_ withstand the blast radius of the Goblin’s tentative-bombs.

 

“Status, Stark,” Steve commands after the first uneventful minute.

 

“Yep, piezo everywhere. We’re talking about a guy with no compunction for collaterals.”

 

“Copy that. Any signs of the Goblin?”

 

“… Found the fire exit. I’m going down.”

 

Compounded with having to save thirteen others from the vaults, there are only two viable way out. Option one: take the Goblin out with extreme prejudice. Then, have the hostages navigate _around_ all piezo to one of the exits, or have Iron Man fly the hostages out.

 

“Cap, I detect movement in the stairwell.”

 

“How many?”

 

“Just the one.”

 

“Any risk of triggering those piezo?”

 

“No piezo in the radius of fifteen yard. Could be the Goblin. Could be a hostage. Shall I engage – oh, boy.”

 

All of STRIKE huddled around the speakers perk up with vigilance. Steve waves two fingers in Clint’s direction, who nods before hurrying off to the opposite block where his nest is. “Report, Stark.”

 

“I see the bombs. Frankly I’m disappointed. There isn’t enough firepower to blast the bank to kingdom come. Ah, here we go. Run it by the Captain, J.”

 

“Captain Rogers,” JARVIS begins, “there are two kilograms of C-4 stacked in clusters against a load-bearing wall. Preliminary calculations highly suggest demolition of the western half of the building upon detonation.”

 

Steve doesn’t like the odds. “STRIKE Team Alpha. Rumlow, we have four pounds of C-4 strapped to the western walls. I need a perimeter as far back as 39th. Stark, any movement from the Goblin?”

 

“… _Fourteen_ in the vaults, zero in the stairwell. The way I see it, we either take the Goblin out, _or_ –”

 

“Can you defuse the bombs?”

 

“Thought you’ll never ask. What’s your favourite colour, Cap?”

 

“ _Stark._ ”

 

“Small talk. About time we get to know each other, no? I know you like wearing undershirts two sizes smaller, but I can’t figure out if you prefer red to blue. I don’t consider white a colour…”

 

Steve clears his throat and the two guys snickering behind him hush abruptly.

 

“… And, scene. I’ve swept the area three times over. All piezo are wired to these babies on site, and I just killed them. We’re clear.”

 

“Copy that. Clint, zipline in, eyes on the vault. STRIKE Team Beta, secure the exits. Alpha on hostage extraction. Stark on the Goblin. Wait for the signal.”

 

Clint is first to break through the front windows where he lands on the tiles Tony previously warned as loaded. Nothing blows, and Clint is rapidly on the move.

 

“We’re in the clear. Move, move, move!”

 

Body cameras on Rumlow and Tony show Steve everything he needs to know about what’s on the inside. A well-timed delivery of Iron Man’s sonic taser to everyone in the vault – a collateral Steve is willing to stomach and the Goblin drops ungraciously to the ground. Evacuation of the other paralysed thirteen is going swimmingly when Tony suddenly bellows into his comm, “Everyone get out! He’s got a bomb strapped to his chest –”

 

Steve barely moves an inch when Tony’s body camera fizzles out, and the grounds tremble with the force of the unprecedented detonation. An explosion that large wouldn’t leave survivors, but survivors there are still, because Clint’s voice, garbled as it is, is telling anyone who would listen to get the medic.

 

“Clint, come in. Where is Stark?”

 

“I don’t know. There’s rubble everywhere. I – it happened so fast. Tony jumped onto the guy and the ceilings came down. I don’t know if – I don’t know. We need the medic!”


	16. Chapter 16

“- fine, people. Just fine…” Steve’s earpiece crackles some more, and he jams it deeper into his ear. He has to make sure. “Heavy…”

 

“Stark, is that you?”

 

The bank’s sideway door is flung open and Rumlow is first to emerge. The five-year-old is tucked safely in his arms, and he hands her over to the fleet of awaiting paramedic.

 

“Clint, status!”

 

“I’m fine, Cap. I think someone’s broken his leg. I’m helping evac. Tony is fine, too. I think his comm is broken, but he’s fine.”

 

Steve breathes easy again immediately after.

 

Five hours later, he attends debriefing with Rumlow. Fury has threatened the rest of the Avengers and STRIKE teams to stay put in medical, which is a huge favour on Steve’s part because _Tony_ tries to sneak off again the moment he loaded the last of the hostages onto the ambulance. Until Clint wrestles him into a wheelchair and stuffs him into the very same ambulance, that is. Steve hasn’t had the chance to speak with Tony, so preoccupied he is with logistics and PR.

 

The debriefing is also quite the experience on its own. Steve has never seen Fury this chirpy, and he’s never harassed Tony by the end of it, not once. Though not one for flattery, Steve makes sure to highlight Tony’s contribution to the team, from the fact that he’s Avenging while on official leave, to his selfless sacrifice at the end.

 

 _Then only_ does Steve haul ass to SHIELD’s medical, eyes searching the expanse of the room for that one person he has so much to talk to. And he quickly finds Tony reclined on a sterile examination table, curtains half-drawn to afford him some privacy. He’s stripped off the Iron Man suit all the way down to his black mid-rise briefs, and seems entirely content to be left alone, unconnected to the nearest hotspot.

 

“Hey,” Steve greets first, and stops to stand where the curtains are. The thing about the Iron Man armour is, Steve often overestimates how much protection it confers to the man within. The way Tony often brags about his inventions doesn’t help ground their expectations either. Lifting the faceplate feels like cracking a Kinder Joy egg. The cuts and the welts and the free-flowing blood never fail to surprise _every single time_.

 

Steve catches himself staring at a particularly ugly bruise on Tony’s stomach for far too long. Which is too bad, because Tony catches him first.

 

Steve clears his throat again. “Good job out there, Stark.”

 

“How’s everyone?”

 

“Zero casualties.”

 

“Save for the Goblin.”

 

“You did what you have to. You saved everyone’s lives back there, hugging the bomb.”

 

Tony’s gaze drifts upward to the ceiling, and he closes his eyes. “My suit can handle it. It’s not macho bravado, it’s statistics.”

 

But not without a cost. “May I?” Steve gestures at the bedside trolley. There’s copious amount of antiseptic to drench a body and enough lengths of gauze to mummify it. “My first aid skills ain’t so bad.”

 

“… Sure.”

 

They sit like that in amicable silence for what feels like half an hour. A great feat, since Tony handles the agony that is bleach-on-open-wounds like a champ. Not even a squeak! Steve secures a cotton pad with some tapes and expertly moves on to the next gash.

 

“You know, Rogers? You’re pretty familiar with this mortal stuff.”

 

“Are you surprised?” Steve presses lightly along Tony’s flank, checking for bruises. “This sort of thing happens all the time.”

 

“Yeah, but you’re you. You always heal before they cart you here. I bet I have to patch myself up way more often than you do, and I’m only half as good as you are.” Tony shifts his weight a bit, and Steve stills his hands. “Or, you get your practice by doing this for others. Rumlow must be stoked.”

 

“… No. No, I don’t,” Steve smiles as he reaches for a fresh alcohol swab.

 

“Well, well. To what do I owe Captain America’s special attention. You must’ve liked me more than you’d care to admit.”

 

And Steve’s witty comeback is cut off by a _ping!_ from the – Jesus Christ – Iron Man helmet Tony has stowed under the pile of blanket near his feet.

 

“That’s not allowed!” Steve hisses, drawing the curtains to a complete close behind them.

 

“No one will know if you don’t tattle.” The helmet, too is as scuffed as its owner. “JARVIS, found anything?”

 

The helmet glows brighter as JARVIS speaks from the inset speakers. “Jackson Brice, alias, ‘The Goblin’, was an ex-employee of Toomes Salvage Company. In 2010, the company was forced into foreclosure once Damage Control officially takes over clean-ups post-Avenging.”

 

Steve stops his ministrations, and Tony seems to curl into himself a bit more. “So, payback, huh?” he sighs.

 

“It would seem so, Sir.”

 

“… OK. Send a memo to Pepper, will you? Reach out to all ex-Toomes Salvage Company employees, see if we can absorb them into SI manufacturing. We won’t be able to take in everyone. Consider enrolling the rest into courses for skills upgrading. Leave no one behind.”

 

“Very good, Sir.”

 

And, that’s closure for Tony and Steve both. The final piece to the puzzle that Steve doesn’t think solvable after the Goblin’s death. To barricade himself and thirteen bystanders in an intricate trap that guarantees deaths without ransoms suggests the Goblin’s expectations of _not_ surviving this. His only demand is “information”.

 

“Well, that’s another job well done, I suppose,” Tony mutters without mirth.

 

Not information per se. The Goblin’s target has always been Tony. The piezo, the bombs. He makes sure only a flyer will attempt to reach him. Steve was so close to signing off _two_ body bags to the morgue tonight.

 

“Hey, Cap?”

 

“… What?”

 

“Ouchie? Easy on the grip there, darling. I’m all fragile meat and bone.”

 

Steve cares not – he manoeuvres Tony onto the bed again, patched-up back flat against the firm mattress. And he leans dangerously in, their noses almost touching and their breaths, almost one.

 

“… Is this punishment for uh, something I did that I can’t recall at the moment?”

 

“No.”

 

“My reward?”

 

“… No.”

 

Steve closes the gap between them, his forehead resting on Tony’s. The stench of a hard-won battle and… near-death infiltrates his senses. He bathes in it. His heart pumps with renewed vigour, and he knows Tony _knows_ how fast it’s going. Still, he stays.

 

And then, and then, and then, Tony clutches him by the jaws, and rises from the bed to press his lips against Steve’s. Chaste. Sincere. The shock is enough to send Steve stumbling away, while Tony expertly schools his expression to neutral. How far off the deep end he’s gone? And what should be done next becomes crystal clear.


	17. Chapter 17

When Steve first woke up to New York 2011, he wondered if he could crawl back into the ice casket and sleep again. Maybe this whole thing had been a dream. The _most badass_ of dreams. Choke full of vivid colours and sounds, people in funny clothes speaking funny languages. The nights had been arduous when left to his own device. There’s so much free time that – Nick said – he could use however he sees fit! This never happened, all right? In those long-gone days, people used to hustle for a lot of things. Food, medicine, money, job… the War. Those concerns haven’t shifted much seventy years later, but life has been genuinely good to him.

 

It _still_ hurts. Still feels empty on the inside.

 

The Avengers is that extra filling he needs. What Clint said, the _umami_ in his soup. They have been his home and family, as much as it has been to Tony as well. Tony Stark. The man who has everything, and nothing. The spanner in the works who Steve – and Fury – once worried would single-handedly drive the Initiative into the ground.

 

Who knows if the sex –

 

Nah, they’re not – not there yet. No _intention_ to go there either.

 

He dares blame Tony for ruining the Avengers. And here he is _ruining Tony_. He wished he could take it all back – the words he said, the things he did. Holding Tony’s body hostage for _good behaviour_? His punishing conscience won’t let him go a day by without remembering the lingering brush of Tony’s lips on his, the musk of sweat and blood, and Tony’s blasé response to his advances.

 

It’s over. It’s over for them, and it’s all his fault. His own. But, he won’t rob Tony of the Avengers.

 

He’ll leave.

 

Steve isn’t a man with many possessions. Everything he has can be fitted inside two large luggage, which he parks right beside the door of his bedroom. If he leaves the Avengers, he leaves the Tower. He promises not to suddenly drop off the surface of the Earth. This… career, these things that he does to uphold the Dream has been his purpose for being. He doesn’t need the Avengers to fight the fights. Fury says his living quarters in DC is still available. Hasn’t been touched since he left for New York.

 

Meaning, it’s in dire need of some dusting.

 

Fury gave him seventy-two hours to rethink his decision about resigning from all positions from the Avengers. To that, Steve reiterated up to nine variances of “I’m sure about this, Nick”. Of course Fury would ask why. Because there’s a thousand and one reasons for one to forsake his family.

 

“Is it Stark?”

 

“No, Sir. He’s a key asset to the team, but we don’t acknowledge him enough. As long as he keeps his ego under check, those men and women will be the finest team you ever put together, Nick.”

 

“Every team needs a leader.”

 

“… It doesn’t have to be me.”

 

Guess it’s time to update that LinkedIn profile.

 

Regardless, it’s not like SHIELD could advertise a super-soldier slash World War II veteran vacancy and expect a queue of replacement candidates by Monday. So, Steve agrees to stick around until someone suitable crops up. Big shoes to fill, no doubt. He can work for _SHIELD_ on the side in the meantime.

 

SHIELD. Not the Avengers.

 

Meaning, he’s not required to stay in the Tower any longer, and not required to work with Tony until and unless an interplanetary threat descends upon this good Earth.

 

It’s time to say his goodbyes.

 

After dinner one Wednesday, he hangs back in the kitchen instead of returning to his room or the study as per usual. Even a genius has to eat, right? But Tony never appears, and it’s ten thirty. Steve has sat by and stood around and leaned against the kitchen island since seven. Thor would’ve called this “fated”. He grabs a glass of water and makes for his bedroom upstairs, and lo and behold! Here comes Tony Stark from the elevator, grimy from head to toe, clad in clothes that might’ve seen better days.

 

“Hey, Cap,” Tony greets as he walks past. He doesn’t wait for Steve’s reply.

 

Fated, huh?

 

So, Steve follows Tony back into the kitchen, and retakes the spot he stood at not too long ago. The tiles still feel warm.

 

Tony steals a glance at Steve as he opens the fridge. “Need something?”

 

“I want to tell you – personally – that I’ll be leaving tomorrow. I think I owe you this much.”

 

Pulling out a chilled bottle of water from the rack, Tony shrugs and says, “Sure.” He kicks the fridge shut with his toe and walks back out of the kitchen. “See you next week, I guess. Fury wants a report on the engines.”

 

“I mean, permanently, Tony.” Which stops Tony dead in his track. “I’m resigning from the Avengers, effective tomorrow.”

 

Then Steve meets Tony’s gaze evenly, and wonders how well Tony would take it. He hasn’t broken the news to the others, but he can roughly guess who will be in the no-way-camp or the OK-camp. But, with Tony?

 

“Can I have a word with you? In private?”


	18. Chapter 18

Majestic. Ultra-modern. Opulent. The Stark Tower, ladies and gentlemen – renamed Avengers after Tony gifted it to the Initiative. And he never asked for anything in return, neither rental nor a _favour_ for his tenants to stop leaving rotten chimichanga in the fridge. So, what? Tony has his laundry list of character flaws – ask anyone – but he’s a gracious host. Steve has a personal study because Tony figures the pond must run deep with somebody who prances around with a capital “A” on his forehead dressed up in the country’s flag for the most of his adult life. Steve wants to offer the privacy of said room for their discussion, when Tony says first, “Come to my study. It’s pretty much sealed in.”

 

Which turns out to be biometric-secured. Tony flattens his palm against a pad, and the door clicks.

 

“Have a seat,” he quickly collects a helmet prototype from a stool, so Steve can take it. “Sorry about the mess. My bots aren’t the best housekeepers. So, uh, I think Dum-E spilled detergent on the carpet around… there,” Tony points vaguely in one direction, and Steve notes a discoloured patch by the bookcase. “At least they tried. Got to count for something.”

 

“You don’t let the keepers in? At all?”

 

“Nope.” Tony leans back against his desk, and crosses his arms over his chest. “Everything in here is top secret. Only Pepper and Rhodey are allowed in, _with_ supervision. Mine.”

 

Fair enough. “We can do this in the other study.” Steve doesn’t want to call it his study, because it’s not his, not really, not when the man paying for it is staring holes into his face. “It’s just as quiet.”

 

“Does anyone know about this?” There’s a level of intensity in the way he holds himself, like he’s _that_ close to throttling Steve for bailing on his family.

 

“No. You’re the first.”

 

“Wow, I feel so honoured already. Why?”

 

“… The Avengers are set up for unconceivable threats. The Chi –”

 

“Yeah, I’m gonna stop you right there. And you’re gonna say that the Avengers don’t get despatched much for those kinds of threats, since we’re doing run-of-the-mill jobs that people below our paygrade can do. So, might as well up and join SHIELD for the challenge.”

 

“It’s not for the _challenge_ –”

 

“Or maybe you just want a change in environment?”

 

“Tony –”

 

“Either way, I’m calling bullshit on all of them. You say you owe this to me. So, say it. Tell me why you’re leaving.”

 

“I am,” his voice trails off, and he takes a deep, calming breath. He does owe Tony the truth. “I am so, so sorry for what I did to you. And that’s why I’m leaving.”

 

“… Because you’re sorry?”

 

“Because I’ve done enough. I’ve taken things way too far. And I’ve no excuse for ever allowing it to get this far.”

 

“You don’t mean that.”

 

“I do, Tony. I actually do.”

 

Tony, still holding his gaze, untangles his arms to brace the table instead. “Is that why you stop coming onto me?”

 

And Steve almost tumbles off the stool. “Before something happens that can’t be undone, _I’ll leave_. The Avengers is in good hands. You don’t have to hide them, Tony. Your nightmares, your sleepless nights. Your constant detachment from the team. From me.”

 

“It’s really not about you.”

 

There it is again. The attitude, that haughty dismissal. So maybe Steve doesn’t have the right to presume so much. He huffs solemnly, and casts his eyes to the stained carpet. “Be that as it may, I don’t wish to take advantage of your hospitality. Not like this. I don’t mean to – to be ungrateful, God knows, Tony the times I spent here in the Tower, with everyone have been the times I felt most alive.”

 

“Then, stay,” Tony cuts in. “You don’t have to do this.”

 

“I spoke with Fury earlier. I know he’s been giving you a hard time, and frankly speaking part of it is on you.” Steve smiles fondly at the accusation, and so does Tony. This is a precious memory to have of a friend, so Steve holds on to the moment for as long as he can. “We don’t appreciate your contributions to the team enough, I admit that. And I regret that it went down that way. No, let me have this, Tony,” he bats Tony down quickly. “You’re an important asset to the team, no lesser than the rest of us. You and I operate on different functions and mechanisms, and I was too…” Steve huffs again, “prideful, perhaps. I needed to peg you down to the… hivemind. You laugh, now,” Steve smiles again.

 

Saying all these to Tony has been right. It _feels_ right.

 

“I know apologies won’t change a thing I said and did to you, Tony. Maybe one day, I’ll earn your friendship again. Take care of the team for me.”

 

Done deal. A closure, for both their sakes. Steve rises from his stool and makes for the door, hoping it’ll let him out without needing Tony’s handprint because this exit will be _so_ awkward otherwise –

 

“I have nightmares.”

 

Steve’s hand freezes where a conventional door knob would’ve been on a lower-tech door.

 

“I’ve had them for a while. After the Chitauri attack, after… the whole flying out of a wormhole thing. I can’t sleep. When I do, I dream. I see you, _all of you¸_ dead. This planet, _burning_. Always burning – and it’s all my fault, for not doing more.”

 

Steve turns abruptly to face Tony again, and Tony looks away, shame and guilt plastered on his features.

 

“You must understand, Steve. When I go out in that suit, I’m not just one guy. I’m the collective intellect of all the supercomputers combined, because I _programmed_ them. And they work, Steve, they _work._ I know your combat experiences surpass any Generals’ still alive, and I’m not kissing your ass, Rogers, so shut up and listen. When your call and mine differ, I choose to trust mine. My numbers, my codes. Yet, I was wrong. Time and again, you guys surprise me, and it’s not because I’ve been… looking down on – no, sorry, let me try again – I guess I should’ve trusted you.”

 

“Thank you.” And, honesty. Steve doesn’t need to hear them, he knows the Chitauri has been haunting Tony since. “Thank you, Tony. I appreciate that. But it won’t change my decision about leaving the team.”

 

That’s when the weight on Tony’s shoulders seems to melt completely. He rolls his necks and the joints creak, a light laughter erupting from his throat. “I welcome every touch you lay on me. Every one. I expect nothing less from Captain America,” he smirks. “You work me so hard I get so tired I just fall asleep, six hours straight. No nightmares. _Perfect_. So, don’t sweat your sexual advances on me. Keep ‘em coming.”

 

… Great.

 

Steve has never wanted to run through doors so bad his knees are bending. So, what then, now that Tony has essentially invalidated his fears while _still_ wearing that stupid grin.

 

“Stay?” Tony asks simply. “I don’t want to see you gone, Steve. The Avengers need you.”

 

Well, this _is_ his home. Where else would he rather be?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, beautiful people! This is it, the end of all things smutty :p There'll be a short coda after this, like a stinger scene in the movies XD But, as far as the main body of the story is concerned, this is it. I want to thank all of you who have subscribed, reviewed, gave kudos and bookmarked, who have supported this story in any ways - you guys ROCK! 
> 
> Until the next adventure, then! Cheerio!


	19. Coda

What is Steve Rogers doing on one beautiful Sunday morning, on a rare off day from SHIELD and Avengers duties? The same thing Tony Stark is doing. Tony is currently lying on a creeper below the belly of a car, his long legs sticking out. Steve has done maintaining his Harley Davidson and is quite content with nursing a can of isotonic drink and watching Tony modify the vehicle. Wiping sweat off his neck with a rag, Steve nudges Tony’s ankle with his toes and asks, “How are you holding up?”

 

“… Just great, Rogers, thanks.” Tony suddenly sticks his hand out, his index finger pointing at the toolbox. “The screwdriver.”

 

“What’s the magic word?”

 

“Screw you, Cap, that’s what. Would you give me my screwdriver or not?”

 

The man loves his screwdrivers. They come in every size available, every shape. And hell, three of them Steve is pretty sure are customised. He grabs one at random – a Phillips size two – and presses the handle emphatically into Tony’s open palm. Tony takes it with him under the car, like an octopus snatching food and returning to hide between the rocks, when he starts whining and pushing the screwdriver into Steve’s vague direction again.

 

“Not this one. The other one.”

 

“What one?”

 

“ _That_ one! Looks like… fuck. See? This is why I prefer my bots. They know how I work.”

 

Mouthy, mouthy. Can’t have that now… not when they are getting on _so well_. Steve fishes out a remote from his pocket. What can it be indeed, this nefarious-looking black piece of plastic the size of a car beeper with a shiny red button on top?

 

Tony freezes where he is, and the wheels of his creeper stop creaking. There’s tension in his legs, and Steve smirks openly, knowing full well that Tony can’t see him.

 

“Do you want me to tow your bots in? Dum-E is almost done charging.”

 

Tony’s legs grow pliant by the knees, and the view – _Christ_ – the view of those jeans-clad legs spread apart before him has never been so inviting. Steve quickly pulls his sandal free from his right foot, and pads along the inner areas of Tony’s leg –  the chiselled bumps of his calf, the firm expanse of his thigh. A shiver courses the length of the limb as Steve creeps higher and higher.

 

Tony’s erection is already on vulgar display.

 

“How are you holding up?” Steve asks as he kneads those balls in between. Soft flesh, so vulnerable, and Tony twitches as the toes dig in. His thighs clench together to hold Steve’s foot captive. “Answer me.”

 

“… Peachy.”

 

Steve frees his foot without effort to full-on step on Tony’s cock. A free massage, so enticing, so loving… and Tony embraces it. The naughty sounds spilling from his lips are the sweetest hymns, and Steve fiddles with the remote some more, pushing a slider button up.

 

More. There’s always _more._

 

“Like that, Stark. Can you hear yourself?”

 

And Steve mutters a silent prayer to the Gods above for this _amazing_ purchase. The first time he visits a sex toy shop he has to rally himself for the courage, clutching expresso in Starbucks next door. Facing off Nazis and HYDRA goons and not breaking a sweat, no problem. But, shopping for the best anal vibrator in a brick and mortar shop? Steve can appreciate online shopping a bit more after he oozes out of the shop, a non-descript paper bag in tow.

 

“Take it. Maybe when you get loose enough, I’ll fuck you just the way you like it.” Steve pauses a fraction, and adds, “You’ll learn to like it.” This is a whole new experience for Tony, who would’ve guessed? Steve can’t keep a straight face for ten minutes when he first learned about it.

 

“Captain Rogers, Sir, Commander Fury is approaching in thirty seconds.”

 

And they both scramble like the Devil himself is visiting. Tony scoots from under the car and readjusts his jeans while Steve turns the remote off, and checks Tony over from head to toe, just in case. Then right on cue, Fury ambles in between tall stacks of engineering thingummies, looking dapper in his trademarked leather trench coat and eyepatch.

 

He stops abruptly, the one visible eye narrowing and says, “Do I want to know?”

 

Steve’s throat bobs. It can’t be that obvious, can it?

 

“No, I do not,” Fury replies himself, and brandishes a frighteningly thick ring folder from inside his trench coat. There’s a fourth dimension in there, Steve suspects. “Captain Rogers, a word please. I’ve a message from the WSC.”

 

Tony kind of hangs around his car, not wanting to continue working on it, not with all the bangs and clangs. But, Steve pins him where he is with a stare, so that means he’s not to leave the garage unless Fury instructs him to – and he hasn’t. From the tail of his eye, Steve knows this will _kill_ Tony. One minute of inactivity and he’s fidgeting like a kid with a rash.

 

There’s a fix for that.

 

Steve discreetly slips his hand into his pocket, and turns on the switch to the anal vibrator. His own groin churns when Tony leans heavily against the car, glaring at Steve from afar with misty, horny eyes. Sure, two can play the game.

 

But first, work. The kind of nonsense that Fury can’t wait until Monday to lay on him. “‘Letting the Avengers loose’? No, Nick. We’re not criminals. We answer to the WSC when we need to, but until then, we’re free to live our lives as we see fit. They want us locked down, they have to answer to the ruling institution of this country.”

 

The game has gone on for a while that Tony is probably so close to the edge he’s _begging_ for permission to leave. Steve figures Tony has earned his release, so he maxes out the stimulation, and redirects all of his displeasure to Fury and Fury alone.

 

God help him, he wants to cross the length of the garage and feel Tony up, every square inch as he rides his orgasms –

 

Tony clamps a fist over his mouth and doubles over, eyes scrunched up as his face flames up. Steve clears his throat again, catching himself staring at Tony for two seconds too long and quickly nods at something Fury says. Probably nothing of grave consequence.

 

“You’re wanted at the Triskelion tomorrow, eight a.m. sharp.”

 

“Yes, Sir.”

 

“… Maybe bring Stark along,” Nick turns to Tony, “Pierce’s _niece_ has a soft spot for Iron Man.”

 

“It’s my pleasure to, ah,” _Christ,_ that… sound. That lurid sound. “To show the lady some good time.”

 

“She’s six.”

 

“… Yikes.”

 

“That’s all, gentlemen. Try to stay out of trouble in the meantime.”

 

Fury stalks away, leaving them in relative peace and quiet – that is, until Steve marches over to Tony and does _exactly_ what he means to. He pulls the zipper of Tony’s jumpsuit all the way down, and takes hold of the spent cock, ruined by semen.

 

“Nice.”

 

“… Of course it is.” Tony pulls Steve’s wrist off his clothes and zips it back up. He deftly steps aside, effectively freeing himself from the cage of Steve’s hulking figure. “What are you up to next?”

 

“I was thinking, maybe lunch?” Steve offers Tony the hefty folder. “You might find this interesting.”

 

“That’s for your eyes only, no?”

 

“The regulations affect the team. I value your insight, Tony.”

 

“… Sure.” Tony’s lips tweak upward as he thumbs through the front pages. “What about this vibrator?”

 

“Keep it.”

 

Until next time.


End file.
